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A L<*~ 

LIVING AND LOVING: 


OR, 


Ideal ‘Letters About Life. 





BY 


PAULINE GREGORY. 




0 



“ But to know 

That which before us lies in daily life 
Is the prime wisdom.” Milton. 

“Now abideth faith, hope, love, these three : but the greatest 
of these is love.” St. Paul. 

“ He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things, both great and small.” 

Coleridge. 

He lives best who loves most benignantly in all the relations 



lie 1 1 V CO I 

of life. 





MEMPHIS: 

S. C. Toof Cf Co., Printers. 
1884. 




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, 
BY PAULINE GREGORY, 


in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C. 


/ 


DEDICATION. 


TO THE MEMORY 

OF MY INCOMPARABLE DEPARTED SISTER, 



AND TO THE FRIENDS OF MY YOUTH, 

THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 


BY THE AUTHOR 



PREFACE. 


Some books of value have but one intention, this of 
mine has many ; and all of them deeply fraught with sis- 
terly consideration for the children of men. If only a few 
of the pilgrims of earth may read and realize more fully 
that the highest style of greatness should be found in the 
every day walks of life, and without the hope of earthly 
recompense, I shall be rewarded for my labor of love. 
Home is certainly a holy sanctuary for the soul, and the 
very highest school in which true greatness can ever grad- 
uate. Surely it is well to remind ourselves of this, in an 
age so feverish and so forgetful as ours. 

It is my wish for the reader to know that these pictur- 
ings of life are all ideal. All my names, and homes, and 
people, are ideal. I have really seen the prototype of Mrs. 
Mark Arlington’s face. It was called beautiful ; and bad 
been twice married to very sensible gentlemen. 

I send this book to gentle hearts and homes with a prayer, 
that it may be to them as is the genial dew to flowers — 
refreshing and helping in its influence. It has given me 
pleasure to idealize rural homes in the land of Kentucky 
— that land so peculiarly independent and hospitable, and 
so adorned with chaplets of fair renown. While these 
word paintings are all the creations of my own imagina- 
tion, they are certainly true to the possibilities of life, in 


6 


PREFACE. 


that beauteous land of homes, and fields, and trees, and 
worshipping assemblies. Realistie ideality is not fiction, 
but painting. My characters represent classes and kinds. 
It accords with the earnestness of my Ideals to testify here 
that I have really known two excellent and devoted 
mothers who were driven from the homes of their darling 
sons because of the dispositions of the wives of those sons. 
One of them was the only living child of his mother, yet 
he asked her to leave his home and stay away, tho’ she 
was a widow, and old, and very good. 


Living and Loving. 


LETTER I. 

Dear Annettie — Thank you for your good letter of 
sisterly love and solicitude. We feel greatly pleased that 
your heart and pen are so faithful to an absent brother. A 
happy young wife, surrounded by new friends and inter- 
ests, is apt to be wholly engrossed thereby ; and the friends 
she left behind are too often neglected, even when they are 
tenderly loved and remembered. But you have always 
been a good sister, and now, your letters of affection greatly 
console us for your absence. It soothes us, too, to know 
that you are a gem, radiant and rare, fitted only to adorn 
and bless wherever you may go. I tell our dear mother 
that when we gave you to Albert O’Neal, we gave no com- 
mon gift, for we gave him a royal living casket of womanly 
perfections. But, O Annettie ! it is a solemn thing to give 
a sister away at the altar, 

“To another path and guide, 

To a bosom yet untried.” 

However much we may believe in human goodness and 
human happiness, however much we may trust in God and 
His faithfulness, it is still a solemn and trying reality to see 
my sister given away in marriage. A wedding is counted 
among festive things, but it is more like a funeral to those 
who are left at home when the bride is gone — gone to 
return to us no more as all our own — gone to be never again 
as she has been in the home of her nativity. Her place, 
O how vacant ! Her tones, O how silent ! Her aspect and 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


her ready hand, her heart and its quick sympathies, ali 
gone — entirely gone from those who have loved her so 
long and well — gone ! gone ! with an abiding absence from 
the home where she learned all that she knows about living 
and loving on earth — all that she hopes to enjoy in time 
and in eternity. I know, dear sister, that it is good and 
beautiful to love as you love, and to lay your gentle hand 
trustingly in another, stronger hand, and thus go on 
through all this earthly life up to the home of God. I 
feel and see that Infinite Wisdom and goodness provides 
this holy estate for human beings on earth. It is divine 
in its origin, and blessed in its influence ; it began in Eden, 
when man and woman were sinless, and when the earth 
and sky wore a heavenly repose. The Saviour of the 
world honored a marriage in Galilee with his presence and 
his power, and often spoke of the sanctity of marriage. I 
know it is a hallowed and lovely bondage. Certainly there 
is much reason for us to hope for your happiness and pros- 
perity. I am willing to let you go, Annettie, yet we must 
say again, it is a solemn and trying thing to give you 
away — entirely away. 

“ My gentle sister, ever thou, 

Who by my side shall take thy place, 

And calm the fever of my brow, 

And plume my spirit for the race ?” 

Not many persons fully estimate the value of a sister’s 
influence. I, for one, must believe there is nothing that 
can supply its place. It is like the sunshine and the dew 
to help a brother grow into perfect manhood. It refines 
and elevates his tastes, and tones, aud manners ; and when 
she is sensible and good, as my sister, she can teach him 
divine wisdom, and all that makes a man ready to live and 
ready to die. I pity a man who has no sister to train his 
nature and his life. I cannot tell with human words how 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


9 


much you have done for me, my priceless Annettie. But 
a time will come when this mortal shall put on immortal- 
ity, and we shall live in a world of light, with all our 
powers made perfect. Then, and there, my own faithful 
sister, with a golden harp to help me, I hope you will hear 
me sing an hymn of thanksgiving before the throne of 
God, for the gift of such a treasure. While we both 
remain on earth, I hope you will never forget my nature, 
Annettie, and that high standard of brotherly love, which 
is a part of my being. There is seldom a day or night in 
which I am too weary to pray for my father’s children. 
When I cease to be a good brother, let me not be anything 
but a contrite sinner. 

“ ’Tis said that trifles light as air 

May rend fraternal bonds of love ; 

But Ah ! it cannot, cannot be, 

That mine should e’er so fragile prove. 

My sister, could this heart be bared, 

Its inmost secrets known to thee, 

Thou’dst find thine image there enshrined, 

And learn how dear thou art to me. 

Ah ! then, should sorrow cloud thy brow, 

Or disappointment rend thy breast, 

To me, O fly for sympathy ; 

A brother’s love might soothe to rest.” 

I am sorry about waiting so long to write to you ; but 
you know how impossible it is for a physician to command 
his time. In the stormiest night he must go in haste at 
the call of suffering humanity. It is my intention to 
write to you when ever it is in my power, and to relate to 
you those interesting realities of human life, which some- 
times come peculiarly under the eye of a physician. I 
still believe there is no other person delegated with such 
power and privileges as a Christian physician — power to 
minister to the body and to the soul, when suffering and 


10 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


death are busy with their mournful mission to the homes 
of earth. This power gives him access to human hearts 
and minds, when they are the most rational and the most 
needy. You, Annettie, helped me to choose the profes- 
sion that I love so well, and it seems to me a pleasing sort 
of duty to share with you a part of its thrilling realities. 
You used to call my narrations histories. When they are 
written, you will think them still more worthy of a title so 
dignified. They will be histories, and when you read 
them you will say with Byron, that “ truth is stranger 
than fiction.” Sometimes, dear sister, it is more beautiful, 
and often it is much more mournful than fiction. 

9 

Ouly see what a long letter I have written without tell- 
ing you one word of news, tho’ there is something new 
to tell — something that will interest you greatly. Can 
you believe that I have lately taken time to pay a visit to 
your friend in the country — your prime favorite — your 
nonpareil, Miss Cornelia Vidii? Yes, it is really so. But 
I will wait and tell you all about it in my next letter. The 
clock is striking twelve, so good -night to all the world, and 
to you, Annettie. 

Affectionately your brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER II. 

Dear Annettie — I promised to tell you about my visit 
to Miss Cornelia Vidii. Shall I begin by confessing that 
I went fifty miles just to hear her talk ? Some people have 
traveled much farther to listen to her conversation, and I 
no longer wonder at them, for, “ to hear her speak,” 
really “is far above singing,” tho’ singing be ever so sweet. 
You have often said, one must see her at home in order to 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


11 


appreciate her, and that is true, Annettie. I have known 
her for years, and have met her often at intervals, have 
paid her polite attention when she visited our city, have 
always admired and liked her ; yet, she impresses me with 
new degrees of excellence aud loveliness, when seen in her 
parental home. Home seems to be peculiarly her element, 
where she shines with her best radiance, because she is 
happiest there. This would not be so striking and so lovely 
if her home were a home of wealth aud splendor, or even 
a home of ease. Her home is but a rustic home, as you 
say, and evidently is made charming by taste and skill and 
industry, rather than by a convenient purse. It is won- 
derful that a person should become so cultivated and ele- 
gant in a home so plain, aud so remote from the advantages 
of the world. The originality of her character is much 
more clear to me now. Her father and mother, whom she 
so reveres and loves, are of a high order, with all their 
plainness, and have trained their children with uncommon 
fidelity and skill. I never before have seen such a home 
with such a family band. The air seems purer, calmer, 
clearer there, than in any other place. I could see and 
feel that peace, and affection, and sincerity, and goodness, 
were native there, and all-pervading. Miss Cornelia was 
surprised to see me, but seemed really glad. She came 
into the parlor without waiting to dress, like a city belle, 
and very lovely did she look in her clean calico dress, with 
an etherial muslin of some sort fastened about the throat 
with a simple pearl pin. I arrived at Vinoliain the morn- 
ing, and spent the entire day in that romantic home. How 
refreshing it was, you can conjecture. Of course we 
wished for you, dear sister. We walked and talked, and 
gathered flowers, and sang a few old songs. I sang, 
“ Flow on, Thou Shining River.” She sang in her impres- 
sive manner, 


12 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


“ All that’s bright must fade, 

The brightest still the fleetest ; 

All that’s sweet was made 
But to be lost when sweetest. 

Stars that shine and fall, 

The flowers that droop in springing, 

These, alas ! are types of all 

To which our hearts are clinging.” 

She would not sing the next stanza, because, in it the 
poet prefers to be without joys and blessings, rather than 
to have them so fleeting. She said it seemed best to her 
to take the cup of life just as it is mingled by the hand of 
Infinite Goodness and Wisdom. I would not presume, 
said she, to wish for a shadowless life on earth. It is a 
rich mercy to have brightness and sweetness even for a 
time, and then weep tenderly and gratefully when they 
are gone. But I will not attempt to tell you what she 
said, Annettie. You know all about her thoughts, and 
words, and ways. I will tell you, though, how everything 
I saw and heard that day seemed to blend into enchant- 
ment. How exquisitely the wild vines grow here and 
there, and no two of them alike. The place may well be 
named Vinolia. Miss May Vidii was not at home. I 
regretted her absence ; so did Miss Cornelia. 

Before dinner time all the family came into the parlor. 
The brothers are, as you have said, polished and pleas- 
ant, and very manly. The elder Mr. Claudius Vidii is a 
stately man. I told Miss Cornelia her father reminded me 
of a Roman Senator. She said that it was true and strange 
that her father had a Roman aspect and a Roman name, 
though he was not a R)man. Fleetly the day passed on, 
and the sunset was as glorious as the day had been. We 
stood in a garden path to gaze upon the evening splendor 
and to enjoy it. A few moments after the sun sank down 
in the west, the full moon rose up in the east, as if to con- 


LIVING AND LOVING. 13 

sole us for the dying of that beautiful day. While thus, 
the evening light was both radiant and pensive, Miss 
Cornelia sang, as if from the deep recesses of her soul, a 
song of adoration and love to the Creator. It is an old 
hymn, and you may remember all its words, yet I will 
transcribe it here, for the sake of your lovely friend and 
that sweet evening. 

From all who dwell below the skies 
Let the Creator’s praise arise ; 

Let the Redeemer’s name be sung 
Through every land, by every tongue. 

Eternal are thy mercies, Lord, 

Eternal truth attends thy word ; 

Thy praise shall sound from shore to shore 
Till suns shall rise and set no more. 

What a wonderful combination of gentleness and dig- 
nity is your friend Miss Cornelia Vidii. At times she is 
playful as a child, yet the strong traits of her character 
seem almost sublime. I do not know in any other person 
so wise a sage, so true a philosopher, so devout and earnest 
a Christian. I left her presence feeling more certain that 
goodness and happiness are very attainable in this existence. 

Now, Annettie, are you ready to call me a good brother 
for telling you so much about my visit to your dear Cor- 
nelia ? And are you feeling triumphant to think I admire 
her almost as much as you do ? It used to be an aim and 
an endeavor with you to teach me that she was almost 
divine. But you are an enthusiast, dear sister, and I am 
not. Please remember that, when you read this letter. 
Find as much fault with it as you please. I know you will 
be grateful to Your affectionate brother, 

Walter Yerily. 

P. S. — You know, Annettie, that I have never been as 
religious as you wish me to be. Let me tell you now that 


14 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


I have been more contrite, and more in love with the 
beauty of holiness, ever since that evening at Vinolia. 
There is wonderful power in the manner of singing a sacred 
song, and Christians can really make their faith conta- 
gious. All men ought to be Christians, but most especially 
ought a physician to be wise unto salvation. A man who 
has carved the human form into atoms, and studied it as a 
revelation of unsearchable wisdom, and power, and good- 
ness, that man ought certainly to adore and love supremely 
the Creator and Redeemer of the body and the soul. In 
the human frame alone there is a perfect demonstration of 
power and wisdom far beyond the comprehension of man. 
The greatest human intellect can do nothing more rational 
than to bow low before a dissected human form, and feel 
that God is God, and that He has all power in heaven and 
in earth to work as it may suit His holy will. If it be 
truly said that 

“ An undevout astronomer is mad,” 

It is only more true to say an undevout anatomist is mad. 
Even the starry sky, with its magnificent acclaim of power 
and glory, is not so eloquent of God as the structure of the 
“ human form divine.” I have always believed this, An- 
nettie ; have often felt, in the dissecting room, that the 
Creator of the lifeless form before me could easily rebuild 
it with His wonderful power. The resurrection of the 
body does not seem so wonderful to me as the creation of 
that form ; to me it is a miracle ; and when I think of it 
it is easy to believe all that God has revealed to us in His 
Holy Word. Now, why is it, Annettie, that I cannot be 
spiritually -minded like you and Miss Cornelia? Every 
time I feel the solemn beat of a dying pulse, I yearn and 
pine for grace to pray more devoutly and availingly. 
Every time I visit a sick room, or look upon human suf- 
fering, I feel the need of God to help me, and make me a 


LIVING AND LOVING . 


15 


consoler of the immortal spirit of my patient, as well as a 
skillful healer for the body. But now, again adieu. Who 
ever saw so long a postscript before ? You remember how 
long our talks used to be when you were here in this dear 
old home ? Sweet sister, this letter is like those long talks 
— ended, but not finished. We never did quite finish a 
talk, did we, Annettie? I have now more than a volume 
to say, yet adieu, adieu. Write as often as you can to 
Your faithful brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER III. 

Dear Annettie — Thanks to you for your sweet last 
letter. It is just as spicy and profound as I expected it to 
be. Tho’ not a prophet, I knew you would say something 
about my being in love with Miss Cornelia. Do you for- 
get how appreciative I am, and how I love to study human 
character? You used to say I could see beauty and excel- 
lence where no one else had noticed them. I still culti- 
vate the fine perceptive faculty, because it is important to 
my profession as well as to my standard of true manliness. 
A person cannot be just without fine perceptions, and 
justice is a cardinal virtue. You would think me stupid 
and unkind if I had said less to you than I did about your 
darling friend. You wish me to love her is one reason why 
you think so eagerly about it. Certainly I am not in love, 
tho’ it is true that Miss Cornelia seems to me lovelier than 
any young lady I know, except my sister Annettie. There 
is no reason, as yet apparent, why I should not love her if 
I choose. She is my equal every way, and I am hers. 
Indeed, there is something peculiar in our equality of 
“ house and lineage.” Our parents almost resemble each 
other. Our mothers both are singularly gentle, and 


16 


Living and loving. 


refined, and good. Our fathers are both plain men, and 
both remarkable for integrity of character — neither of us 
are rich — neither of us are very poor ; and there seems to 
be a singular harmony in our tastes and attainments. I 
do think about loving, and am so much interested that I am 
glad Miss Cornelia is not my cousin, but my heart shall 
not really love any daughter of beauty until I know all 
about her disposition. You see I am as wise and as willful 
as ever — cannot — will not surrender my heart unless my 
reason and conscience approve. 

It is no doubt true, Annettie, that “ the beautiful pas- 
sion,” the love that poets and people talk so much about, 
is, and should be, involuntary to a degree, but to a degree 
only. The first spark may wake up spontaneously, but 
should never grow into a passion until it is fanued by rea- 
son, and knowledge, and understanding. If reason has 
been given to man as a blessing, he ought surely to use 
that high power in deciding the most important event of 
his earthly life. I am weary of seeing men and women 
marry as if they really possessed no powers of mind and 
no sense of accountability. I have heard a strong man 
say he loved his wife at first for the ringlet on her brow. 
More than two or three clever gentlemen have told me 
when they were going to be married, and then voluntarily 
confessed, each one of them, that the lady he loved was 
not the style of woman he admired most, or would have 
selected for his wife. Each one said he loved, and could 
not resist that affection, tho’ he could not tell why he loved. 
They did not care to know why they loved, so weak and so 
bewildered were they under its influence. Anuettie, I 
pitied them, and shuddered, and when they left me alone 
I prayed that the Lord in heaven would save me from 
such weakness and such wickedness. I do believe that all 
such love proceeds from satanic influence. To beguile the 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


17 


children of men in their affections is surely one of the 
deep endeavors of the great destroyer. He knows that 
marriage is a holy thing, and that home is a sanctuary, 
and he knows how much might and dominion he secures 
for the kingdom of darkness, when he can bewilder the 
sons and daughters of earth into loving erroneously. I 
have watched the destiny of wayward lovers, and the more 
I know about them the more I abhor such loving, and the 
more I realize that marriage is the most momentous of all 
earthly realities. The happiest life has cares, and toils, 
and sorrows. Some persons grow lovelier amidst these 
things, while others make everything darker and more 
difficult to endure. I have lately noticed some of the en- 
chanting fair ones in their married homes, and my soul 
grew sick to see how their devoted husbands were wading 
on through the deep waters of life. Mrs. Snarl, Mrs. 
Guile and Mrs. Censorious, were all once pretty and cap- 
tivating girls. So was Mrs. A., who groans and whines 
over every household duty. No matter how weary her 
husband may be, she is sure to greet him with complain- 
ings. Mrs. B. is always intent on going somewhere. No 
matter how things are left at home, she viust go and see 
Mrs. somebody. She is always tired of home. Mrs. M. 
is high tempered, and has scolded until it is written all 
over her face. I never look at her when it can be avoided. 
She is the wife of my old playmate, Fredric Miles. He 
was always a good boy, and I like him yet. But it makes 
me sad to see how care-worn he looks. Everybody who 
knows him honors him for his dignity and self-respect. 
He treats his unlovely wife with as much consideration 
and kindness as if she deserved it all. 

Dear Annettie, do you wonder that such things should 
make me more and more afraid to love ? It is strange 
how these admonitions multiply around me. Not many 
2 


18 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


days ago I heard the wife of a good man tell his own 
mother to go out of his house and never come into it 
again. She thrust her out of the door, and threw her 
trunk, and chair, and basket, after her, and said, “Go some- 
where else, old woman ; I am tired of you and all your 
concerns.” This old lady is a good person, and devotedly 
fond of her youngest son, the master of that mansion. 
She has toiled to give him the pretty home in which he 
dwells, and this is her reward. Now, Annettie, what 
would life be to me with such a wife as that ? It is not 
possible for mortal mind to estimate the extent of a wo- 
man’s power over her husband, and over his destiny, and 
over the happiness of all who love him in any relation of 
life. I have heard many persons say “ it concerns no one 
else but himself what sort of persona man marries.” But 
the truth is, it concerns every body that kuows a man. 
His individuality, his actions, his aspect, are all affected 
by the nature of his wife, and who ever sees him feels it, 
whether they are conscious of it or not. And O, Annet- 
tie, who can ever tell what it is to those who are near and 
dear to him ? The mother who watched over him so 
long, the father who toiled for him so faithfully, the broth- 
ers and sisters who love him with a love higher and holier, 
perhaps, than he can ever know again, who can tell or 
measure what it is to them, how or whom a man is going 
to marry ? 

I have seen so much of a wife’s influence for evil and 
for good, so much of its inevitable and far-reaching power, 
that I feel myself accountable to God and to the human 
family for the choosing of that person to whom I shall wed 
myself. Some men can endure disappointment in the dis- 
position of a wife better than others. I could not expect 
perfection in any human being, yet some of the common 
faults that are tolerated in Christian homes would destroy 


LIVING AND LOVING. 19 

my happiness and paralyze my best powers. A woman 
who could hate any human thing that God has made 
would be no mate for me. A woman who could be guile- 
ful or cruel could never make me happy. If she should 
filter in tenderness for them that are near and dear to 
me, I would not prize her love for me. No, Annettie, I 
could not. All the tongues of men and angels could not 
convince me that she was capable of real affection, if she 
could be unkind to my mother, or sister, or brother. Such 
things are often inflicted on good men by their wives, and 
I shudder to think of such married woe. Annettie, my 
sister, pray for me when you read this. Pray that God 
will give me a wife with a deep, warm heart that is too 
pure to be selfish, and a mind that is too high and just to 
be ignoble. It is still my intention to make a home of my 
own, and win myself a wife. I wish that home to be the 
habitation of the best and balmiest things. I would have 
it to be a refuge and a rest to them that I love best in this 
world, whenever they may need my sheltering kindness. 
If my wife should be ungentle and ungenial, the beauty 
of my life would be gone — the blessedness of my heart and 
home would be a blight and a reproach. All this could 
happen to me. It has befallen other men as good as I 
am. I will write you soon some of those little histories 
that fill me with so much fear and trembling. Perhaps 
no man knows better than I know that there are very 
many excellent and noble human beings scattered about in 
the world everywhere. I think sometimes that no other 
man of my age ever knew so much about human loveli- 
ness as I know. Its influence has been around me all the 
days of my life. This parental home of ours has ever- 
more been filled with tones, and words, and works, that 
would have suited the Eden home of man before the fall. 
Our mother seems to me almost divine. It may be she is 


20 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


equal to the angels now — now before the mortal has put 
on its immortality — now while I can hold her hand in 
mine and gaze into her pale, calm, spiritual face. You 
know, Annettie, that I have always been a woman wor- 
shiper, and that my faith in human goodness is strangely 
credulous. With all this attuning of my nature, only 
think how calamitous it would be for me to devote my 
heart and life to the wrong person. Watch over me, my 
sister, and pray to the Infinite Father to guide me in choos- 
ing the wife of my heart, the angel of my home. You 
have told me that you had never seen Miss Cornelia’s dis- 
position ready tested. Remember this, when you are so 
anxious for me to love her, and win her if I can. But 
you are weary of my subject. How impossible it is for 
me to write you a short letter. It is so pleasant to talk to 
you, Annettie, even in the distance of a thousand miles. 
I’m afraid we shall never learn to live without you, dear 
sister, yet we must. Do not forget that I am always 

Your brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER IV. 

Dear Annettie — I will begin this letter by telling you 
we have a new organ prettier and sweeter than the old one. 
Mother likes it much better. It seemed faultless this even- 
ing, when it helped us to sing “Old Hundred” in our 
evening devotions. I am glad mother takes so much inter- 
est in music now. She looks so plaintive and sad some- 
times since your departure. It reminds me of the first 
years after we lost our dear father. She helps me to tend 
and w r ater your little garden under the bay window. Some- 
times even the flowers look sad since you are gone. “If 
things inanimate ever do grieve,” they surely grieve for you, 
Annettie. We all believe that my horse pines to see you. 
If I lay my hand on him and say, Alp, where is Miss An- 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


21 


nettie? his lips quiver with emotion, and the expression of 
his entire face grows sad. He misses your arm and hand 
about his neck, and your words of kindness and encour- 
agement. That way of petting a horse is one of the gen- 
tle things you learned from Miss Cornelia. She still talks 
to her horse whenever she is near it, and the horse really 
seems to enjoy it understandingly. 

You say that I must go more into society, now that we 
are so lonely, but I am spoiled, Annettie. Mother and you 
and Miss Cornelia have made me unfit for other society. 
I keep in good humor with ladies who live only for admira- 
tion and the last fashion. I pay short calls now and then 
to some of them, but they only interest me as specimens of 
their class and order. Everywhere I go it is still my inev- 
itable habit to study human character. The poet who first 
said, “ the proper study of mankind is man,” would surely 
approve of me. But I must tell you, dear sister, that the 
more I see of the world the more I feel like staying with 
our dear mother. No other face is half so beautiful to me 
as hers. No other voice is so sweet to me. No other pres- 
ence is so genial and balmy. Who else is so guileless and 
tender and true? — who else is so wise about living and lov- 
ing? She is the only person I know who weeps over the 
sorrows of others, and is always patient with the erring and 
the unworthy. Beautiful, sweet mother; God was very 
good, Annettie, when he gave us our mother'. I still go 
out serenading sometimes in the moonlight, and always end 
the evening with a sacred song under mother’s window. 
She says it seems almost heavenly. 

This is a short letter, dear sister, yet it must end. It 
were needless to wish that angels might watch over you, 
Annettie. I am sure they love to “ encamp round about” 
you. With love that cannot die, I remain indeed 

Your brother, Walter Verily. 


22 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


LETTER V. 

Dear Annettie — This evening we are pensively wish- 
ing yon were here. The sunset just now was peculiarly 
radiant and glorious, as it illumed the spires of the city 
and then sank down. I thought of you, and the pleasure 
you ever manifested in beholding such wondrous work of 
the Divine Creator. Somehow I felt a deep need of your 
words, to talk to me of that splendor which went down iu 
night, and yet, would keep its radiance and come again to 
bless the needy earth. You did not see it, tho’, and you 
cannot speak to U3 this evening, but I can speak to you, 
all thanks to the Great “ Giver of good and perfect gifts.” 
Who shall say that letter-writing is not a divine and price- 
less gift to the children of men ? Certainly it is a solace 
to me, now and always. Mother and I have just been 
talking of the last evening you spent in our home. You 
wore a robe of snowy white, and an etherial vail fastened 
about your brow with orange blossoms, and floating about 
your person with a strange beauty. I thought my sister 
looked like a seraph then, but in the retrospect you seem 
only a lovely child of earth, for then it was you “ stood 
beside the altar,” and with bridal vows severed yourself 
from us, and from all the world but one. 

Forgive me dear sister if I tell you my heart is sad to- 
night, and that my eyes must weep over the desolation of 
our dear old home. Father, and brothers, and sisters, all 
are gone. 

“Some at the bridal, some at the tomb.” 

Some are in Heaven, some are on earth. I, alone, am left 
to soothe the heart of our dear mother, and cheer the even- 
ing of her beautiful life — a sacred privilege indeed, yet 
very solemn sometimes. But I must not sadden your ten- 
der heart by revealing the anguish of mine. It is not often 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


23 

that emotion gains the mastery over me so entirely. It 
shall not oppress me too long. I am thankful to the Divine 
Creator for giving me a deep, warm heart, and tears to 
weep sometimes. There are men who think it unmanly to 
weep; but there are times, I am sure, when it is unmanly 
not to weep. Tenderness is by no means weakness. There 
is one thing bright to me now, Annettie, in the memories 
of your bridal evening. There was no shadow or cloud 
about Miss Cornelia, as she stood beside you. No one calls 
her beautiful; yet there is something more than beauty, in 
her poetic aspect — her dewy grey eyes, and the divine ex- 
pression of her face. These words sound something like 
the language of love; but I only love her as we love the 
roses that we gaze on, without wishing to possess, or gather 
from the parent stem. And it seems to me now, as if I 
shall never love any one more than I do this evening. My 
heart is beating in sympathy with the great Spanish poet 
when he said, 

“ O World! so few the years we live, 

Would that the life which thou dost give 
Were life indeed ! 

Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, 

Man’s happiest hour is when at last 
The soul is freed. 

# * # * * # -* 

“ Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 

Ily the hot sweat of toil alone, 

And weary hearts ; 

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 

But with a lingering step and slow, 

Its form departs.” 

Perhaps many persons feel this way at times. It is very 
mournful, Annettie; but not miserable. Perhaps it is a 
blessing to be sorrowful sometimes. Certainly I do not 
wish to complain. But you would advise me to soothe my 


24 


LIVING AND LOVING . 


spirit with music; so, I will say good-night, dear sister, and 
turn myself to the organ, and to the Father of Mercies, 
for the balm that I am needing. 

Sadly and truly, your brother, 

Walter Verily. 


LETTER VI. 

Dear Annettie — I am going to write you this evening 
one of those little histories we promised to send you, from 
ray professional treasury. Have I ever told you that Miss 
Antonia Wentworth is an invalid; and that she calls for 
my skill as a physician, preferring it to any other in our 
city? Take notice of that, as a compliment to your brother 
Walter. You are not very well acquainted with Miss An- 
tonia. She is older than we are; but you have heard our 
sister, Juliana, speak of her often. They were class-mates 
at school, and compeers in society ; and very good friends. 
Juliana used to call her “ the elegant and excellent Anto- 
nia.” She is now more than thirty-five years old, and is as 
elegant as ever. She is certainly a charming combination 
of elegance and real goodness. Adversities and privations 
are destroying her physical life, yet she still plays exquis- 
itely on the harp, when she is well enough, and sings the 
prettiest songs in the world, I do believe. Some of them 
are sacred songs. Not many persons are so innately and 
intensely refined as Miss Antonia. I can see that this re- 
finement is a source of suffering to her sometimes, yet it is 
very lovely. I think she prefers me to other physicians, 
because she believes me to be peculiarly refined in manner 
and feeling. She told me once that I had won a charming 
reputation for balmy tones and manners in a sick room. 
She is very appreciative, and talks finely. It is like poetry 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


and music to me to hear her talk of my sister Juliana. I 
have been so fortunate as to inspire her with a sort of con- 
fidingness that is well for her as a patient, and for me as a 
physician. It did not take me long to discern that all her 
sufferings proceeded from “ a wounded spirit that there 
are sorrows pent in her mind and heart until they have be- 
cojiie corrosive and life-destroying. I believed that it would 
mitigate the suffering for her to talk of her sorrows to a 
friend. That an utterance of anguish would lessen the 
tension of the mind, and soften the corrosion about the 
heart. You remember, Annettie, how much I revere sor- 
row. This feeling, added to my deference for Miss An- 
tonia, made it difficult for me to tell her what I believed, 
yet, after a prayer for strength and wisdom, I did tell her, 
and she said I was not mistaken about the diagnosis of her 
malady. “ It is as you have said, Dr. Verily. I am 
dying of anguish, for ‘ such things are,’ let the stoically 
wise say as often as they will that ‘sorrow never kills.’ ” 
“ I do not believe,” said she, “ that it is in the power of 
human skill to save me from the death I am dying. But 
human skill can soften human suffering, and I am willing to 
try the efficacy of your advice for the abatement of my men- 
tal anguish. My sorrow often seems greater to me than I 
can bear.” I told her to select some sympathizing friends, 
and tell them all about her affliction. She looked very 
thoughtful for a moment, and then said she would rather 
talk of it to me than to any of her lady friends, if I could 
have time to listen to her sadness. “ There are deep lessons 
of life in my little history,” she said, “ and you can learn 
wisdom and safety from the things that afflict others.” I 
thanked her for selecting me as her listening friend, and 
told her that no one would feel more interest and sympa- 
thy in her narration than I should. She looked as if her 
heart was breaking afresh, and then, that look of agony 


26 LIVING AND LOVING. 

gave place to a look of resignation, and she said : “ You 
will be amazed, Dr. Verily, to know that the unkindness 
of my brothers is the cause of my suffering. ” I told her it 
seemed incredible, but that I had heard other persons say 
they suspected her brothers to be guilty of inhumanity to 
her. “ O yes,” said she, “ inhumanity is just the word to 
express what it is, and it is strange to know how dreadful 
a thing bloodless cruelty may often be in this curious 
world. You know how we were taught to love each other,” 
said she, “ and you know how polished and popular my 
brothers have always been. You know, too, how my dear 
father lived ^nd died, and how I dwelt with our sad mother 
in the years of her widowhood, when all my brothers were 
married, and living in beautiful homes of their own, and 
you know there are many reasons for expecting the noblest 
and manliest things from the sons of my excellent father 
and mother. My brother Daniel, as you know, has always 
remained in this city. When our dear mother died he 
took me home with him from her funeral. He was tender 
and kind, and told me I must never feel homeless or deso- 
late while he was alive on the earth. These were sweet, 
consoling words, tho’ I had never felt a doubt of the faith- 
fulness of my brothers. That manly demonstration of my 
brother Daniel’s heart has become to me a landmark and a 
solemnity, for it was the last sheltering, brotherly expres- 
sion that I have ever heard from any one since my mother 
died. The wife of my brother Daniel began to be uukind 
to me the day after my mother was buried. She had 
always been civil to me before, but now that I was home- 
less and motherless, she was alarmed, lest my brother 
should devote a little time or money to my comfort. The 
more I tried to please her the more she would complain 
and torment her husband and me. I call it torment, for 
no other word expresses what it is to be with a such a per- 


LIVING AND LOVING . 


son. Poor brother Daniel ! how I grieve over him. He 
is a perfect slave to his unlovely and injurious wife. For 
his sake, Dr. Verily, I will not tell you of half her un- 
worthiness. I only intend to show you why I suffer, and 
to teach you the great importance of wisdom in choosing a 
wife. My brother Roderic resides in the capital of our State, 
and in a few months I went to him. He greeted me with 
some brotherly kindness, but his wife seemed to be made of 
ice. In a few days she told me she had always disliked 
me; and said, if she had thought I would ever stay a 
month in her house, she would not have married my 
brother. The next day she told me that coal and candles 
cost money, and that her husband wa3 not a rich man yet. 
She has no self-respect, and in a day or two more she really 
reviled me for going to see my own brother. The fact that 
I was fatherless, and motherless, and homeless, seemed to 
make me hideous in her sight. I was almost a stranger to 
her neighbors, yet she did not scruple to talk to them of 
me injuriously. So there, in my dear brother’s house, and 
in a Christian land, my stricken spirit felt encompassed 
with the powers of darkness. O Dr. Verily, it would not 
be possible to tell how I suffered, and that suffering has 
never passed away. The wounds inflicted then bleed on, 
and cannot heal. My heart and mind seemed shaken as 
by some terrible convulsion, and the beauty of life seemed 
gone, entirely gone, from all my father’s children. When 
I left my brother Roderic and came to the house of my 
brother Luke, ten miles from this city, his wife was almost 
kind. She was polite, because she is polite to every body 
in her own hou>e. She is an amiable person, but is also 
cold and worldly. She cares mostly for externals, and 
only keeps that part of her home in order which will make 
an impression on visitors. Beautiful as is the home of my 
brother Luke, I was physically uncomfortable there. It 


28 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


amounted to suffering, but suffering seemed to be my heri- 
tage, and I could endure it. If Luke or his wife had ever 
told me to feel at home in their house I could easily have 
made myself comfortable, but they had never said such 
words to me, so I felt like a visitor, and suffered on. But 
that suffering was almost pleasant ; it was so soothing and 
sweet to be with my brother in a peaceful home. Luke 
has always been the least appreciative of my brothers, and 
now he is too busy to enjoy any thing very much. He 
was a good brother, tho’, in the days of his youth, and I 
love him with all the spells of our home floating about my 
heart. I did not tell him about my sorrows nor about my 
great need of a real brother. He came with me when I 
asked him to bring me to see my brother Daniel. I pined 
to be again with Daniel. My heart was too stricken and 
tender to stay away from my brothers ; I was obliged to 
see them. I had no idea of any real life in this world 
away from them after our mother died. With those feel- 
ings I lived on three years with my brothers, going from 
one to the other as my heart would pine to go. I had 
never done or said any thing unsisterly to them, or to their 
wives, and could not believe they would be persistently cold 
and cruel'; but the more I believed in their justice and 
affection, the more suffering and disappointment I endured. 
My brothers grew colder and colder ; the wife of Daniel 
and the wife of Roderic grew more and more cruel, and 
my heart grew more and more sick. That I was patient, 
and long-suffering, and kind, and affectionate, seemed noth- 
ing to my brothers ; and their wives seemed to dislike me 
the more because I would not quarrel with them. In my 
father’s house, my brothers have often told me I was a good 
sister. It was my nature to be so ; but since our mother 
died, no brother has ever said to me that I had always been 
a good sister. My nature, my history, my claims, are all 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


29 


forgotten. Roderic, the brother in whom I most trusted 
for justice and affection, was the first to speak words that 
I could not endure. My brain grows dizzy, and my heart 
sickens whenever I remember his aspect and his inhuman- 
ity to me at that time. He seemed to have gone entirely 
away from himself, and from all real manhood. O, Dr. 
Verily, if a man would be true to himself and his Creator, 
he must be prayerful and careful about choosing the wife 
of his heart. 

“ The power of woman is a fearful thing when it is guided 
by the great Destroyer, the enemy of all good. Satan be- 
gan this work of his in paradise, and -he will carry it on 
in the homes of men so long as they are led by his beguil- 
ing ways. My brother Daniel, and my brother Roderic, 
are both greatly perverted ; and I must grieve to think how 
lovely and happy they might have been, if they had only 
married differently. I have endured trembling and amaze- 
ment in their homes, until my spirit feels a perpetual sense 
of dread and unrest. It seems to me I can never feel tran- 
quil again, until the slumber of death hushes the throb- 
bing of my heart, and angels carry my soul away from all 
the storms of this existence. It has been five years since I 
retreated from the homes of my brothers, yet the suffering 
inflicted there only grows deeper. It is dreadful, too, to 
dwell apart from my brothers and their children, — they 
are all my own, to love and to live for, and my proper place 
is with them. 

“ It is hideous to feel that they are willing for me to be 
away from them in my loneliness. And then,” said she, “ it 
is distressing to live with strangers, let them be ever so 
good. Independent manhood can be properly at home 
wherever he chooses to sojourn or abide, but woman has a 
different orbit, a different nature, and a different influence. 
While she is unmarried, there is but one right place for 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


30 

her home, if she has living brothers or sisters.” I told her, 
Annettie, that she had as many friends as any one could 
wish for. “Yes,” said she, “I have, and I prize them all; hut 
this sorrow inflicted by my kindred, unfits me for the enjoy- 
ment of any earthly thing. If my brothers treated me 
even as well as my ordinary acquaintances I could feel 
happier than I do. They seldom ever come near me, or 
seem to care how much I suffer. They are dead to me, 
and yet, I love them with a tenderness and truth that can 
never change or die. 

“ And parted thus are we who played 
Beneath the same green tree, 

Whose voices mingled as we prayed 
, Around one parent knee.” 

She rested a few momeuts, and then said, “ My brother 
Daniel’s wife says it is right for me to suffer punishment 
for being unmarried when so many clever gentlemen have 
tried to win me. But I have a happy consciousness on that 
subject. My dear father told me when I was a little child 
he hoped I would never be married, and it has always been 
a sort of monitor to me. Once I was almost in love with 
my cousin, Merlie Wentworth, but my mother said we were 
too nearly related to think of marrying each other, and I 
thought so too. After that, I came very near loving the 
elegant and interesting Mr. Millard, from Virginia, who 
was once so much admired here. He was polished, and 
cultivated, and winningly deferential to ladies. But the 
more he visited me the more I studied his nature and prin- 
ciples, and by the time he addressed me, my heart was 
turned entirely away from him. In his conversation I dis- 
cerned that he was unjust, vain, selfish and censorious. I 
felt no confidence in his opinions ; no respect for his pro- 
fessed Christianity. I shudder now to think he ever had 
seemed interesting to me. Since my brothers were married 


living and loving. 


31 


I see plainly that even the most worthy men seldom love a 
lady for her merit, her attainments, her real loveliness ; 
and I no longer set a high value on human love. Un- 
worthy persons win human affection as often and as entirely 
as the most noble. The only regret I feel about human 
love is for my brothers. The only blight that spoils the 
beauty of my life is inflicted by their cruelty and injustice. 
If they had not seen our father and mother die it would 
not seem so sinful for them to grow cold to me ; if they 
were not prosperous men it would be more tolerable, and 
if their wives were not professors of our holy religion their 
conduct would be les3 grievous to me. It is a great con- 
solation to feel that I can love them through all things, 
and pray devoutly for them that persecute me. This 
attainment I learn from our Divine Redeemer.” 

She grew calmer and stronger, while she talked slowly 
on. After a moment’s pause she said : “ Let me encourage 
you, Dr. Yerilv, to cultivate the friendship of Him who 
alone can sanctify to us the joys and the sorrows of this 
fleeting life. I am hastening to His holy presence and to 
the perfect home which redeeming love has prepared for 
all the ‘sons and daughters’ of his adoption. You, my 
good Doctor, may live long on the earth, and the more 
you seek the knowledge and the favor of God, the safer 
and happier you will be in time and in eternity. Then 
she said, thank you, Dr. Verily, for listening so kindly to 
my history of woes. You are a wise physician, for the 
weight upon my heart and mind seems almost gone. I 
know it will return, and stay until I die ; yet it will never 
seem so dark and desolating again. I feel more certain 
now that God and the angels are helping me to endure. 
They often employ visible and human powers to carry on 
their works of mercy and goodness. They helped me to 
choose you as my physician, I am sure. I can hope that 


32 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


you will be lenient in thinking of my dear brothers. And 
I also hope you will not forget the deep lessons that are 
taught in their lives and homes.” 

I thanked her again for her confidence in my nature 
and my skill, and told her it would not be possible to for- 
get such lessons as I had learned from her suffering testi- 
mony. Now, Annettle, is not that history enough to make 
any man careful about loving? Roderic Wentworth is 
one of the very men who told me he could not tell why he 
loved the lady he expected to marry, yet he loved her 
inevitably. I must believe it is fight to say again and 
again that such love is satanic. O Ahnettie! watch over 
me, and help to save me from such married woes. Bury 
me in the earth, or in the ocean, or any where, before I 
marry a wife who would poison my soul and deform my 
life. I wish you could see Miss Antonia now. She is the 
noblest and most interesting person I know, except you, 
and mother, and Miss Cornelia Vidii. How I pity men 
who can be unkind to such a sister, or ever neglect her. 
Her purse is very limited I suspeft, and her brothers pay 
no attention to her wants. But she never speaks of that, 
nor complains of her plain way of living. She gave music 
lessons while she was well enough. Her harp is the only 
elegant memorial of better days that appears to belong to 
her now. When she sweeps its chords with her pale fin- 
gers, and sings Old Hundred, or Home, Sweet II >ine, it 
seems to me she is already one of the heavenly choir. It 
is her soul that sings. It is touching to see and know how 
she is dying. Her sensibility is beautiful to me, and her 
sorrows are great enough to destroy a being less refined 
and affectionate than she is. 

“ Neglect from those we love 
Is such a cutting, bitter thing ; 

A chilling, withering blight, unlike 
Aught else that earth can bring.” 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


33 


* You cm imagine, dear sister, how intensely interesting 
to me was her narration, student as I am of human nature 
and human life. And then, I have known all her family 
from my childhood. No one ever expected any thing but 
good from the "Wentworths, tho’ we were so much sur- 
prised when Daniel married Nellie North. She was a 
silly little thing, and was guileful and artful even in her 
childhood. I can but grieve over the weakness and the 
wickedness of those respectable gentlemen, and the suffer- 
ing they inflict on the innocent and the good. Every one 
who is acquainted with Miss Antonia seems to grieve that 
she is dying, and they can see that her brothers neglect 
her. Daniel’s handsome carriage has never called to take 
her to any pleasant place, or give her the recreation that 
she so much needs. Is it not all cruel and hideous, An- 
nettie ? But this evening is gone, and I must say good 
night, dear sister, good night. Be sure to pray right often 
for Your brother, Walter Verily. 

P. S. — I ought to have told you that Miss Antonia said 
she had never mentioned to any other person the cruelty 
of her brothers or their wives. I believe, too, that she 
softened it all, and that they are more cold and unjust than 
she is willing to express. It is often said that when two 
persons cannot dwell together it is the fault of both parties, 
but it is not always true. Abel was more than innocent 
when his brother grew angry and slew him, and from that 
day until now the darkest malice is often inflicted on those 
who least deserve it. Socrates was condemned to die for 
his wisdom and goodness, and such things come to pass in 
these enlightened days much oftener than the historians of 
our age will ever know or record. Again, good night. 

W. Verily. 


3 


34 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


LETTER VII. 

Dear Annettie— It is Monday evening, and I feel like 
telling you how pleasant it was to go with our sweet mother 
to church on yesterday and sit in the sanctuary, where you 
have so often offered up incense from your heart to God. 
We had a good sermon on the 13th ch. of 1st Corinthians. 
It seems- as if we can never learn enough about the divine 
and essential principle of love as exhibited in that wonder- 
ful little chapter of St. Paul — glorious St. Paul ! O, An. 
nettie, what a sublime character he was and is ! I say he 
is, for certainly he yet lives on in our midst, if we will 
only read what his faith and love dictated and testified for 
all believers. Such greatness as his can never die. His 
soul has two immortalities. One on earth and one in 
heaven. Certainly this must be true of all the inspired 
men of the Bible, yet none of them seem to stand up before 
me like Paul and John. Dark, indeed, must be the mind 
that can listen to them, and see no rays of heavenly light 
and heavenly love. If the words of the Divine Redeemer 
could be less God-like than they are, I would still believe 
the entire testimony of John and of Paul. It will give 
you great pleasure, dear sister, to see that I grow more and 
more appreciative of evangelical things. I wish, above all 
things, to be a child of light, and walk in the light. Not 
lamely, but perfectly — not reasoning out of my own nature, 
but led and ruled by the plain and perfect law of the 
Lord. Why is it, Annettie, that the Bible is not univer- 
sally read and loved, when its precepts are so divine, so 
safe, so beautiful ? Imperfect as I am in the divine life, 
unbelief seems to me a great mystery. But all iniquity 
seems a great mystery, and the iniquity I see in some very 
respectable homes is the greatest mystery of all. Take 
the Wentworths, for an illustration. Those three brothers 


living and loving. 


35 


Stand among the magnates of this land, and yet I cannot 
respect them, and feel so little confidence in them that I 
would not willingly sit in a jury with them to dispense 
justice. The fact that innocent and worthy people so often 
suffer from the sins of others, is one of the dark -mysteries 
that makes me shudder. Divine wisdom seems to permit 
it, but it is difficult to endure. They are calling me to go 
in haste to some one, so adieu, adieu. 

Affectionately, Walter Verily. 


LETTER VIII. 

Dear Annettie — It is stormy and dark this evening, 
but I have something bright and genial to tell you. I am 
always glad to have long evenings at home, whether it be 
raining or shining around us. Evening is still my only 
time for writing, and reading, and music. 

I said there was something genial to tell you, and you 
will live a whole day at Vinolia while you read the writ- 
ten transcript of my visit to your charming friends. If 
you think it would be more sincere to say my visit to Miss 
Cornelia, then have it as explicit as you choose. I did go 
to see Miss Cornelia. These pensive October days made 
me wish to see how she walks and talks in her home, while 
the leaves are falling and the flowers are dying. I left 
the rushing city, the sick and the well, last week, and ran 
out on the morning train, which landed me, at eight 
o’clock, a mile from Vinolia. I spent an hour or two in 
the woodlands, communing with God and the universe, 
and then weut on to the home of the good and great Cor- 
nelia. I call her good because her heart seems deeper 
than the sea. I call her great because duty and affection 
seem to control her in all things. And yet, it may be, 


3G 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


that we do not really know her disposition. I found her 
and Miss May at work in the garden, helping one of the 
brothers to arrange the rare flowers in their winter recess. 
You have seen the little pit in the garden, where they 
have flowers blooming all through the winter. What a 
sweet little cell it is ! Miss May said flowers are more 
charming in winter than any other time, so like sweet 
friends in adversity. Miss Cornelia seems to feel the most 
intense affection for flowers that I have ever seen in any 
person. She treats them almost as if they possessed con- 
sciousness, and reveres them as if she could see the glory 
and goodness of the Creator, in all their tints and forms. 
We remained in the garden an hour, and then went reluct- 
antly into the house. Miss Cornelia said, as I had found 
them at work with the flowers, it would be well for us to 
read Horae* Smith’s beautiful “ Hymn to the Flowers.” 
I felt the fittiugness of her wish, and taking from her 
white hand the book which contained the song of her 
choosing, I read it aloud, and with new apprehension of its 
beauty. We descanted on the poem, and then on the 
poet. Miss May said he was divinely gifted. Miss Cor- 
nelia wished that the President of this land would request 
every editor in America to republish that hymn on May 
day for seven consecutive years. She said every person 
ought to read, it, and keep it near them if they could. I 
told her she would make a wise dictator. For that one 
edict would make the world better and happier than it is. 
She smiled, and thanked me for approving her wish. Just 
then dinner was announced, and our conversation changed. 
The family were waiting to greet me in the dining room 
that day, and pleasant, indeed, was the smiling cordiality 
of the gentle group, while they welcomed my return to 
their secluded home. Youth and beauty are not so charm- 
ing, Annettie, as that serene loveliness, which adorns the 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


37 


faces and manners of Mr. and Mrs. Vidii. I cannot look 
at them without feeling more and more certain “ that good- 
ness is no name, and happiness no dream.” We had a 
refreshing dinner, and the conversation was as uncon- 
strained and elevated as the most exalted taste could 
require. The elder Mr. Vidii is an intelligent sage, and 
the young ladies are brilliant at home. Mr. Vidii said he 
had tried to instruct his daughters in politics, but they 
were too womanly to have much taste for affairs of state. 
Miss May said they knew the difference between Whig and 
Democrat, and how Mr. Clay had prevailed with his elo- 
quence and statesmanship. “ And then,” said Miss Cor- 
nelia, “ we read all the fine orations of our statesmen, and 
the Presidential messages.” 

You have noticed, Annettie, how much the Vidii’s enjoy 
seeing each other at the table, and talking. They did so 
the day I was there, and yet they all seemed, courteously, 
to keep me interested in every thing that was said. Their 
appeals to me were peculiarly graceful and pleasing, and 
evinced uncommon skill in entertaining a guest. But 
every thing was charming. Even the damask tablecloth 
seemed singularly white. The glass, and silver, and china, 
all wore a polished, peculiar beauty. Mr. and Mrs. Vidii 
still keep their places at the head and foot of the table, 
and I like it. Their children sit near to assist them if it 
is needed. There were pretty little vases of flowers set 
near the plates of Mr. and Mrs. Vidii. Miss May says 
they are there even in winter, because her mother enjoys 
every thing more perfectly when she has flowers near her. 
Did you know that, Annettie? I do not believe you ever 
told me about it. But I must tell you how the dining 
ended that day of mine, and all the family returned with 
us to the parlor. After an hour the young ladies asked to 
be excused a short time, and in half an hour they came 


38 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


back beautifully dressed for the afternoon. They were 
robed in dark brown silk, and would have looked elegant 
in any city throng, yet they were plain enough to be at 
home in the country. They had looked pretty in the calico 
dresses of the morning, but the silk was more becoming. 

I tell you all this, Annettie, because it will help you to 
see and feel how we spent that day. I did not tell those 
elegant sisters how they looked, but I did tell them it 
seemed strange for a family so complete as theirs to be 
hidden away from the world. “ Indeed,” said Miss Cor- 
nelia, “we do not feel obscure or unappreciated, by any 
means. We have neighbors, who are upright and immor- 
tal, and then, we love the woodland world, and the repose 
it inspires. We can think, aud read, and learn, and wor- 
ship, more happily here thau in any other place that I 
have ever seen.” Her dewy eyes grew almost tearful, Au- 
nettie, and she said, “ It would not be possible to tell, Dr. 
Verily, how thankful I am that all my life has been spent 
in this retired, rural home.” “ It is plain to see, Miss 
Cornelia,” said I, “ that your enthusiasm does not over- 
rate the advantages and pleasantness of your home and its 
seclusion, but the world needs such people as your family 
to shed influence upon its worldliness.” Miss May was 
interested in the subject, and said, a small part of the 
world say they feel such influence now, and this is the 
point from which they need to feel it. More retirement 
aud tranquillity is what the world needs, and we demon- 
strate the blessedness of life in the country. I asked her 
to make us a speech on the interesting subject. She 
smiled, and then went on to say : “ Few persons, who live 
in town or city, have any idea of the advantages of rural 
life. Besides the pleasures and privileges expressed just 
now by my sister Cornelia, the farmer is more independent 
thau any one can be in a city, and if adversity comes, we 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


39 


can live without things that are too costly for our purse 
much easier than it can be done in any other place. There 
is much of the inevitable in life every where, but in cities 
that I have seen there seems to be a rushing, irresistible 
current, that sweeps almost every one along on its bewild- 
ering tide. To my understanding, there is but one advant- 
age in a city home, and that is, access to churches, and the 
pulpit eloquence, which is apt to be there.” Miss Cornelia 
smiled sweetly on her sister, and said : “ Now, Dr. Verily, 
my sister has made an oration for your benefit.” I thanked 
Miss May for her earnest eloquence, and confessed myself 
instructed by her. testimony as well as by her argument in 
favor of rural and retired homes. Miss Cornelia said the 
half had not been told that should be revealed on that 
subject. And then we left the house, to walk and talk 
among the falling leaves and pensive shadows, that are 
seen only in the calm light of an October afternoon in the 
country. What perfect taste Mr. Vidii has manifested in 
leaving that irregular belt of forest trees around his home. 
How beautiful the fields are beyond it. Vinolia seems 
like a fairy isle, guarded well by the stately giants of the 
wood, from all the turmoils of life. The blue grass under 
our feet was the richest and smoothest I ever have seen. 
How beautiful it is. I carried Miss May’s guitar, and 
when we reached a rustic bench, under that grandest old 
elm, I tuned it for her, and she sang some of her pretty 
songs for Miss Cornelia and me. The brothers were too 
busy to be with us, so we were only a trio. When Miss 
May offered me the guitar, I took it, and played “ Robin 
Adair.” They were charmed with it. but had never heard 
it as an instrumental solo before. Miss Cornelia still sings 
when she is requested to do so, and still prefers singing 
without instrumental accompaniment. You remember, An- 
nettie, we never could tell why her childlike singing should 


40 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


be so thrilling. It is still unaccountably charming. But 
we talked the greater part of that day, that afternoon, 
that evening. I told the young ladies some things about 
Miss Wentworth and her harp. They have met her in our 
city, and admire her. Miss Cornelia wept distressingly 
when I told her how Miss Antonia was dying. I wished 
to wipe the tears away, but could not, as she was not my 
sister. A lady who resides near the home of Roderic 
Wentworth told Miss Cornelia that his wife was strangely 
unfeeling and unreasonable. Even if she loved Miss An- 
tonia it would be a miserable home for one so refined and 
gentle as she is. I told the fair sisters of our trio, that 
when a lady ceases to be lovely in her home there is danger 
of losing the heart of her husband. I believe, said I, that 
many a good man ceases to love his willful wife, and silently 
grieves over the blighting she inflicts all the days of his 
earthly life. And then, I grew egotistic, Annettie, for I 
wanted to say it would be impossible for me to love my 
wife when she ceased to be gentle, and just, and kind, to 
every living thing in her pathway. That did not sound 
much like courting, did it, Annettie? Well, perhaps I 
shall not court like others do, for all this was said because 
my heart is interested in Miss Cornelia. Interested, remem- 
ber, but not in love. I could not tell you half that was 
said in that beautiful afternoon, but I can tell you that the 
Misses Vidii were very thoughtful and wise, while we dis- 
cussed the great, profoundest theme of living and loving. 
The love that leads to marriage, and decides the earthly 
destiny of two immortal beings, is, to those sisters, a thought 
as solemn as the grave. They admire that love, they rev- 
erence the beauty and truth which belong to it, yet they 
are wise enough to see how momentous it is, and do you 
know, Annettie, that it would not be easy to win either of 
tlmse daughters of beauty ? They think old maids can 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


41 


be as happy and useful as any other people. Miss Cornelia 
believes that God and His angels love them with peculiar 
love, because the Bible makes mention of them with special 
approbation. Dear sister, would you expect me to be 
charmed by that sort of sentiment? Let me teil you that 
is just the way I wish a lady to talk and feel, when she 
interests me as much as Miss Cornelia does. Indeed, it 
would not distress me to know she had decided to live single 
all her life. It would make her seem more valuable to me, 
I almost believe, and the winning of her heart would be 
only a more pleasing achievement. It is a common thing 
fur very clever persons to make up their minds to be mar- 
ried, and then accept the first interesting, respectable gen- 
tleman who offers them his heart and hand. I know more 
than two or three cases of this kind, and they seem happy, 
but I would not seek to be accepted by any lady who is 
unwilling to be an old maid. I would never feel certain 
that she preferred me to all others — that it was my nature, 
my attainments, my individuality that had won her. She 
would never know it herself, I am sure. My heart and 
mind have turned more decidedly toward the heart and 
mind of Miss Cornelia, ever since that day, and that con- 
versation. You could not conjecture the number of things 
we discussed in that one day — the seasons, the stars, the 
flowers, the earth, and air, and sky ; the world as it is, 
and as it might be ; time and eternity, heaven and earth, 
and you, Annettie. We talked of you, and ended it by 
saying, it is well we can feel that Albert O’Neal is worthy 
of you. But, Ah, me ! We could not fetter the wings of 
time. The day fleeted by, and the evening came. The 
gentle sisters gathered, each one, a bouquet for me. Miss 
Cornelia made hers of grasses and immortelles, for the 
winter. Miss May wove hers of autumn’s rich roses, and 
rare sweet flowers, set in a cluster of pale wild asters and 


42 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


geranium leaves. You can never know how sweet and 
beautiful it was, for it is dying now while I write to you. 
But the exquisite little clustering of lifeless beauty, given 
by Miss Cornelia, will stay in its immortality a long, long 
time. Perhaps you will see it some day. I went to the 
china store, and selected a pure white vase for its habita- 
tion, and it stands on a rosewood bracket, in the southeast 
corner of mother’s room. I placed it there, because I think 
that room a sacred place, an inner sanctuary. Mother 
greatly enjoys this little bouquet. She calls it Cornelia, 
because it is so bright and charming. You kuow she has 
always admired Cornelia siuce we have kuown her. But 
I have not yet told mother what influence this bouquet has 
over me. It is wonderful to know how many tones it can 
whisper, how many voices it can utter ; all inaudible, yet 
they are real and potent. I never see it without feeling 
pleased and instructed. Sometimes it speaks to me of the 
Divine Creator — sometimes of the radiant summer in which 
it lived — sometimes of the garden where it grew beside 
flowers that were sweeter and fairer, and often it whispers 
of the gentle hand that bound it as it is and gave it to me. 
But you kuow, dear sister, as well as I do, how very inter- 
esting some dead flowers can be. Have I told you enough 
about my last visit to your lovely friends, or shall I write 
on, and let you see how we rambled down to the murmur- 
ing brook in the southern edge of the woodland ? Miss 
May told me that you always enjoyed visiting that little 
stream of living water ; and very sweet it is, Aunettie. 
Its rocky bed and fern-clad banks give it a poetic perfec- 
tion. But Miss Cornelia enjoys, most of all, the ceaseless 
flow of its limpid water. She says it glides onward now, 
in obedience to the Divine Creator, just as it did when she 
was a little child. But she does not know how much of it 
reaches the sea, nor how much of it exhales and goes to 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


43 


heaven. Then she told me that her good father intends 
taking them to see the great ocean, jnst because she has so 
much affection for water, and such high appreciation of all 
sublimity. Water, she says, seems to her one of the most 
beautiful and merciful gifts of the Creator to man. An 
ocean of water seems to her an inexpressible demonstration 
of His power and grandeur. Its law-abiding immensity, 
its depth and strength and wide expanse, make it seem to 
her the greatest of earthly wonders. When they go they 
will call to see Niagara and other sights interesting, out of 
cities and in them, but it is the ocean that attracts them, 
and they would go if there was nothing but the ocean for 
them to look upon. Miss Cornelia thinks her heart will 
grow deeper, and her mind more expanded, wheu she has 
gazed upon oceanic immensity, with its sublime face look- 
ing forever upward to heaven and to God. She is thirst- 
ing to hear the deep voice of the ocean, as it rolls and 
chants a liquid anthem, which no other voice can ever 
emblem on earth. These are her own expressions, Annet- 
tie, and when she was talking, I was enjoying the beauty 
of human thought, and the melody of human words, as 
much, perhaps, as she will enjoy the ocean. We may go 
long journeys to see the wonderful and the beautiful, but 
the human mind is the sublimest wonder of all to me, and 
nothing below the heavenly throng can be half so beauti- 
ful as a lovely, soul-fraught human being. This is what I 
say to you, Amiettie, and perhaps something like it was 
said that evening at the rivulet to those remarkable sisters. 
You often call Miss Coruelia your beautiful talker. Cer- 
tainly her words are peculiarly uttered, and her thoughts 
are gem-like. Yes, Aunettie, they are pearls. I must not 
prolong this letter to tell you how I enjoyed the moonlight 
that evening. Yo\i know all about my passion for moon- 
light. The train came on at nine o’clock, and I said my 


44 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


adieus in time to meet the cars. Two of the brothers 
Vidii walked with me to the depot, and their gentle con- 
versation made the mile very short. The more I see of 
that family, the more interesting and rare do they appear 
to me ; so enlightened, so cultivated, so refined and happy. 
To spend a day with them makes a sweet lull in the world’s 
turmoil. Yet, they evidently live and learn by being 
industrious. Mentally and physically they all work. That, 
Annettie, is the only way to arrive at any perfection in 
this existence. These things we have often said to each 
other, and the more I see of the world the more I believe 
our old theories about living and loving. 

You were wise, dear sister, when you preferred the Vidii 
family to any other for your most chosen friends. I do not 
know of any other so lovely and trust-inspiring as they 
seem to be ; and I have studied them ever since we became 
acquainted with Miss Cornelia. I never have told you how 
she attracted me the first time I looked upon her soul lit 
face, and listened to the accents of her voice. Perhaps 
the interest she inspired is what some persons call “ love at 
first sight.” But it was not love. It was attraction, admi- 
ration, in teres ted ness, and nothing more; tho’ it would 
have been easy to love her at any time. Mine is a law- 
abiding heart, and will not, cannot love without the sanc- 
tion of my understanding. “ Keep thy heart with all d i 1 i - 
gem e, for out of it are the issues of life,” is a precept 
worthy of all acceptance in every affection, temporal as 
well as spiritual. If God will help me, dear sister, mv 
heart shall be very slowly given up to any human being. 
Poets and people talk much about the impossibility of con- 
trolling the affections ; but nothing in life seems so fearful 
to me as loving blindly, and then being ruled through life 
by that affection, whether the object be worthy or uuwor- 
. thy, whether it lead to good or evil, upward to heaven or 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


45 


downward forever. Dear Annettie, I more and more dis- 
dain such satanic thralldom. Human reason and human 
will, combined with religious rectitude, make up the strong- 
est power on earth. May that power continue to control 
and guide me! You will remember that I have fallen in 
love once after the satanic mode of loving. There was a 
time when I believed that Nabby Frost was the only 
woman in the wide world that I could ever love. She 
seemed almost divine td me. If she had faults, I said, let 
her have them, they were all charming to me as a part of 
her individuality. She could sing glad songs, and sweep 
the cords of an instrument with inimitable grace. She 
could talk nonsense very well ; and when she laughed, her 
mouth was glorious with pearly teeth. I thought she 
moved like a fairy, and all my thoughts of her were woven 
in with tints and tones of paradise. I was enslaved and 
satisfied with my captivity. She seemed to like my de- 
votedness, and I was almost ready to offer myself to her 
and plead for acceptance, when lo ! a rival came, and it 
was soon apparent that she preferred the dashing new lover 
to me with my unpretending solidity. Annettie, you never 
knew how much it afflicted me. It took a long time to 
heal the woundedness of my heart. Miss Frost, you re- 
member, married Mr. Swinton a few months after she made 
his acquaintance. I have, of late, been their physician, 
and it would not be possible for me to tell how thankful I 
am that Mr. Swinton was her choice. There is nothing 
about her home, or her aspect as a wife that would be 
tolerable to me, nothing in her mind and conversation that 
would make her companionable for me. My life would 
have been a failure if she had married me, and it was no 
wisdom of mine that preserved me. God must have heard 
the prayers of my mother and sisters when he saved me 
from that great calamity, for I was not so prayerful then 


46 


Living and loving. 


as I am now. It is said, by the wise, that first love is sel* 
dom safe or happy for the marriage relation. Certainly it 
is true in my case. This experience, Annettie, helps to 
make me so careful and fearful about loving again. And 
yet, and yet, I will confess to you that my heart is very 
much interested in Miss Cornelia. I am almost willing to 
love her, but not quite. I do not yet know how she would 
feel toward an enemy, or a person she could dislike. A 
woman who could be vindictive wobld be no mate for me. 
I do not wish her to call any evil good, but she must con- 
demn sorrowfully, tenderly. “ The law of kindness ” must, 
be a, fixed law in her lips, in her heart, in her entire nature. 
Human nature has a right to some faults, but I am not 
willing to live with a wife who is capable of being ignoble. 
Miss Cornelia seems to have no idea of the peculiar interest 
I am feeling. It is my wish that she shall not suspect it 
until my mind is perfectly decided about it. How I can 
ever ascertain her real nature is a difficult problem. We 
may see a person often and be acquainted with them fur 
years without knowing the dispositions in them that will 
not bear to be tested. And now, dear sister, this generous 
and confiding epistle shall end. I have spent two evenings 
writing it, and you will smile sweetly when you open it. I 
can almost hear you say, “ this is like my dear brother and 
his long talks to me.” 

Affectionately, Walter Verily. 


LETTER IX. 

Dear Annettie — I must tell you this evening how my 
sympathies have been lately excited by the death of Miss 
Antonia Wentworth. Her strength seemed to fade with 
the fading leaves, and when the last rich roses of autumn 
were dying she folded her gentle hands over the deep heart 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


4 ? 


that was throbbing its last thrill of anguish and slept to 
wake on earth no more. For weeks she suffered intensely 
at intervals, and lived on with her throbbing heart much 
longer than I expected she would. The day before her 
death she sent a messenger for her brother Daniel, and he 
came immediately to her room. I was there when he 
arrived, and have seldom seen such a look of dismay as 
that which overcast his countenance when he saw that she 
was dying. He had called to see her often of late, but 
could not realize that she would die so soon. He took her 
hand in his, and she said : “ Brother,” while the tears 
flowed strangely and tranquilly down from her blue eyes 
until I thought she would die weeping — silently weeping. 
But it seemed rather to relieve the destroying anguish, 
and after taking an anodyne she talked serenely and slowly. 
“ Daniel, brother,” she said, “ I will soon be at home, in a 
land of love, and light, and rest, where no evil can ever 
come to molest the true-hearted.” She gave him her Bible 
and hymn book and said : “ These will show you the way 
that leads to the home of God ; and, O, dear brother, let 
a dying sister persuade you to love the narrow way that 
leads to life eternal. It is the only path of safety on earth, 
and to follow the glorious Redeemer is the holiest privilege 
that man can ever enjoy. I pray, I pine for my brothers 
to inherit the riches and the rest that are promised to the 
loving and obedient children of God.” She rested, and 
then gave to each one in her presence some word of kind- 
ness, and some token of gratitude from the simple things 
that were hers. The books she has read and marked will 
be prized by the friends of her youth. Many of them 
have been faithful and kind to her whenever she was will- 
ing to receive their attentipns. Her library was singularly 
select, and to favorite friends she had given favorite vol- 
umes before the most solemn day arrived. She knew it 


48 


LIVING AND LOVING . 


was approaching, and in everything that related to duty 
or feeling she was as ready, I think, as a person can ever 
be for the last day of earthly existence. Her harp and 
all her books of music she gave to me, her physician, 
because she thought I appreciated the harp more than any 
other person she knew. She had taught me to tune it and 
to play some of her sacred songs. The readiness with 
which I learned music interested her, and teaching me now 
and then seemed to beguile her from painful thoughts, so 
I learned to finger the rich cords with a brotherly sort of 
interest. But I must tell you how she lived on into another 
day, suffering intensely at intervals. It seemed as if the 
angel of death had been divinely commanded to leave the 
silver cord of her life untouched till her brother Roderic 
could look upon her dying face. Luke had come with the 
messenger a few hours after she had sent for him, but 
Roderic was obliged to wait for the railroad train after the 
telegram reached him and did not arrive until the next 
morning. Miss Antonia had not at any time been uncon- 
scious. The powers of her mind seemed clear and strong 
but she was then unable to articulate. When her brother 
Roderic entered the room a look of holy joy irradiated her 
noble face and both of her hands were feebly turned to 
greet him. He kissed her dying lips, while she held his 
hand in both of hers and folded it to her heart with eyes 
looking to Heaven as if she would like to say, “ I am still 
your sister Antonia and will carry you in my heart up to 
the throne of redeeming love and there plead for your 
safety in time and eternity.” 

Poor, guilty man ! How mute and motionless he stood 
in that solemn presence. He looked as if he had been a 
long time away from himself and was then gazing in 
thought back through the vista of years and into the home 
of his youth, where, with that good sister, he had almost 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


49 


lived and almost loved. He was the brother who had 
most cruelly wounded that dying sister when she most 
needed his kindness, and thus mutely they parted for all 
time — perhaps for all eternity. He had never asked her 
pardon for his unkindness, yet she more than forgave him. 
How much he thinks, or feels, or prays, I cannot con- 
jecture. He looks like a weary, bewildered man. Indeed, 
he always has a suffering look. It is not strange that his 
compassionate sister loved him through all things. She 
died holding his hand close to her deep heart, and when 
the life was gone and good Mrs. Wordley unclasped the 
pale fingers from his hand he kissed the calm benignant 
brow of his noble dead sister and wept aloud. I felt like 
weeping too, Annettie, but did not, would not. In all 
things I endeavor to command myself, and was not willing 
to weep just then, tho’ I have learned to love Miss Antonia 
almost as an elder sister should be loved and revered. 

Some time before her death her brother Daniel requested 
me to stay with her in the dying time, because a physician 
knows better than any other person what should be done 
to help the suffering frame to endure in that trying hour. 
With all the sympathetic suffering I endure in such sacred 
and awful discharge of duty there is a reward, Annettie. 
It is certain, that “ by the sadness of the countenance the 
heart is made better,” and in the presence of the dying I 
learn a knowledge of God and man that cannot be learned 
in any other place or at any other time. I am a better 
man since that dying scene which just now we have partly 
related to you. For years I have felt an innate aversion 
to Daniel and Roderic Wentworth because they married so 
unworthily. Since all the world could see they w r ere faith- 
less to their lone and lovely sister they have seemed ignoble 
to me beyond endurance. I would not shake hands with 
them when it could be avoided. But now, Annettie, that 
4 


50 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


feeling is changed into pity and compassion. Death alone 
is a mighty teacher, a tremendous reprover to human minds 
and hearts, but when the solemnity of death is combined 
with faith in God and love to man, as exhibited by Miss 
Antonia, it has a transforming power and wakes in me a 
deeper wish to become God-like. Nothing has such power 
over me as moral sublimity, and the clinging love for her 
offending brothers, which Miss Antonia constantly evinced, 
and which she carried with her through the valley of death, 
is surely one of the sublimest things I have ever seen. If 
you were sitting beside me, dear sister, we would say many 
things about it, but I do not feel like writing any longer, 
so good-night, my own sister, good-night. 

Truly, Walter Verily. 


LETTER X. 

Dear Annettie — How rapidly the time fleets by! 
Another winter is gone and another spring-time is here 
with all its voices of melody, and truth, and beauty. The 
leaves and flowers have come again to testify that God can 
vitalize the dead and give to slumbering, lifeless forms 
their own identity. 

To me, Annettie, this spring-time has a new, peculiar 
charm, a joy, a richness, a spell of love and beauty that I 
never felt before. I have mentioned to you my interest- 
ing patient, Israel Arlington, but have not told you how 
rapidly our acquaintance has grown into the most romantic 
friendship. It would not be possible for words to give a 
just idea of his nature, his manner, his excelling loveliness. 
His “ voice is like the tones of a rich instrument,” and in 
our first conversation he inspired me with a feeling of fra- 
ternal affection and confidence which seems almost divine. 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


51 


For two years he has lived in our city, but his tastes and 
his occupation have kept him in retirement. I have met 
him on the street and have seen him in worshipping assem- 
blies ; have had a speaking acquaintance with him and 
always admired him. I have heard of his generosity and 
felt the power of his editorial pen, yet never had an idea 
of his rare individuality until he came to see me on account 
of his health and conversed with me an hour. At the end 
of that hour, Annettie, I felt that Israel Arlington was 
the most faultless human being I had ever seen. You 
know already that he has been for two years the literary 
editor of our Palladium, and you know that he has given 
it a dignity and value it never had before. It is mournful, 
indeed, to tell you that he has overtasked his strength until 
its vigor is entirely gone. He placed himself in my pro- 
fessional care and said, if anything could be done for him 
he thought I would discern what it should be. Among 
other things we advised recreation in the open air and rest 
from his mental toil. So he traveled a few weeks and 
visited a few relatives. When he came back it was plain 
to me, from his aspect, that his decline was too deep to be 
arrested by any human skills I cannot express to you, 
Annettie, the sorrow which this conviction gave me. But 
the conviction and the anguish were both profoundly silent. 
We greeted each other with gladness tho’ it was only in the 
morning of this sweet friendship, which will surely live on 
forever with our immortal souls. There are great diver- 
sities in the affections, and some of them are immortal as 
the souls in which they dwell and thrill. Of such is the 
love that I feel for Israel Arlington. 

He told me, as soon as our greeting was over, that noth- 
ing had, in any degree, driven away the torpor from his 
system or wakened its vitality. “ It is not my nature to 
despond,” he said ; “yet it seems to me, Dr. Verily, that 


52 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


my days are numbered, and that the end of my life cannot 
be a thing far off. Do all you can to heal me, or to help 
me endure; and if it is the divine will to keep me a lin- 
gerer here, and a sufferer, so let it be. I am willing to 
suffer, and I love to linger on earth. The thorns in my 
pathway, and the storms of life that have swept over me, 
seem to have a consecrating influence over earthly things, 
and I love to linger here among the shadows. Fiery trials 
and deep waters of affliction have been my peculiar herit- 
age, yet they have not made the earth dark to me, nor 
life a weariness. My spirit looks constantly up to the 
Lord of all things, for help that is availing — for love that 
is perfect and everlasting.” I told him there was uncom- 
mon dignity and beauty in such love of the inevitable and 
the mournful, and that I was glad he could thus express 
himself to me. I asked him to visit me socially whenever 
he could, and told him frankly I had never seen a person, 
out of my own family, who inspired me with such unques- 
tioning confidence and affection ; told him his health was 
an object of tender interest to my heart, and that, as a 
physician and a friend, I would feel it a privilege to serve 
him at any time. A light almost divine came over his 
pensive face, and a tremor about the lips indicated deep 
emotion. ■ He looked silently into my face for a moment, 
as if he would like for me to read his entire soul, and then 
said, gently: “Dr. Verily, I prize your friendship and 
your confidence. There is no one in this city whose 
approbation I could more highly value. I feel grateful to 
God and to you for such a friend at such a time ; yet I 
must tell you that the thought most dear of all to me is 
that God, in His goodness, has made me to be worthy of 
the highest human love and human confidence. Humility 
and a consciousness of worth are not inconsistent with each 
other. I like to feel them both. May I tell you,” said 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


53 


he, “ that ever since I was a little boy it has been my 
nature to love righteousness and hate all iniquity ? Ever 
since I could think and understand, it has pleased me ‘to 
follow diligently every good work,’ and ‘seek earnestly the 
best gifts.’” He paused, and then, as if surprised at his 
own confidingness, he said : “ I hope, Doctor, you do not 
think it always egotism, when a man talks of himself.” I 
told him it was often a duty to be candid and frank con- 
cerning ourselves, and that he could not talk to me 
too much about his own nature and history; and then, 
Annettie, I told him that no earthly thing could give me 
more pleasure than to hear him relate his entire life, from 
the time he could first remember until now. He said it 
was sadly pleasing to him to live again in memory the 
returnless past, and he would like for me to know every- 
thing that he knows about himself and those who are dear 
to him. “ Some of them are in heaven,” said he; “but 
I love to talk of their earthly existence, and the sweet 
spells of our earthly home, when a gentle heart and an 
appreciative mind love to listen to my words. All indi- 
vidual history,” said he, “ is inevitably woven with the 
history of others. I cannot give you a just idea of my 
own life and character without telling you much about 
the good and the evil in my native home — much about the 
errors and the excellence of those most near and dear to 
my heart and life.” His calm face grew almost bright, 
and he said : “I know you will see and feel the good and 
the beautiful in my simple narration, and you will 
leniently think of the faults of my kindred.” I en- 
treated him again to talk to me freely about everything 
that interested him, and especially the things that relate 
to himself— for the more I become acquainted with his 
nature and his mind, the more they interest me. He said 
it was balmy, now, for me to be so much his friend. 


54 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


“ Your words,” said he, “sound like words I have heard 
in other days, and from voices that are hushed on earth — 
from souls that have long been safe within the pearly 
gates.” 

We are often together, Aunettie, and every time we 
meet and part our affection seems to grow deeper and 
stronger. It will interest you, dear sister, to know that he 
is signally and beautifully religious. Perhaps no faith in 
God and immortality can be found on earth greater than 
his faith. For this one attainment of his, and for its man- 
ifestation to me, I owe inexpressible gratitude to God, and 
to my dear friend Israel. O Annettie, my sister, true and 
good, a man may be trained in a religious home, with 
Christian influences perpetually around him, and yet be 
indebted to a new friend for a clear apprehension of the 
mercies and truths he has been learning all the days of his 
life. Israel Arlington has a beautiful gift of eloquence — 
a power to charm with words and to convince. The inter- 
est he feels in my spiritual safety makes him thrillingly 
earnest and persuasive when he talks to me about sacred 
and eternal realities. He thinks I lack earnestness and 
decision in these essential affairs. Yesterday he took mj 
hand lovingly in his and said, dear Walter, there is no lovt 
that compares with Redeeming Love — no friend that resem 
bles the friend of sinners — the glorious advocate, who sit: 
upon the throne on high. I love to think of Him as “ tin 
rock of our salvation.” Let us think of the similitude 
To me it seems a rock broader than the universe, am 
whiter than snow. What a sublime basis for all safety, ii 
time and in eternity. “ O my friend,” he said, “ let ; 
dying man persuade you to fix your feet entirely upou tha 
glorious ‘Rock of Ages.’ ” He talked on, Annettie, and coi i 
vinced me that it is willful and dangerous to love the Lor 1 
as I do, and yet live on, out of the appointed fold of Goo ] 


LIVING AND LOVING. 55 

The church and the sacraments, he said, were divinely 
instituted for the safety of true believers, and we have no 
right to turn away from them and feel that we are guilt- 
less aud safe. Then, Annettie, he persuaded me to be like 
a little child, and have no will except the will of our 
Heavenly Father. He read to me again the words of the 
Divine Redeemer, when He said we must “become as a 
little child,” in order to please Him perfectly. Then he 
prayed for me, Annettie. The sweetest of suppliant tones 
went up from his deep heart to God for me, just then, when 
we talked in his pleasant room. And his was not a vain 
solicitude, or an unavailing prayer, for I have felt more 
enlightened, more earnest and more decided ever since he 
took my hand in his on yesterday, and spoke to me so ten- 
derly and earnestly. Indeed, I feel transformed in spirit. 
It gives me a sacred sort of joy to think it will please the 
Lord for me to love Him and obey Him, as trustingly as a 
little child obeys a good earthly father. Heaven seems 
more real to me than ever before, and this world has a 
value and a dignity that is new since Israel talked to me 
about Redeeming Love. I hope to remember forever his 
aspect and his accents, as he sat before me then, and per- 
suaded me to give myself entirely to the Lord of all things 
in heaven and on earth. You remember, dear sister, I 
have always believed that faith in the Redeemer of the 
world would make a man safe, if he would follow good 
works, and hate the common iniquities of the world. 
Thanks to the Triune Father of mercies, and to my friend 
Israel Arlington, I have now a better faith. To-day I 
believe that all disobedience to the Divine Word is iniquity 
—all unbelief is sin. I do believe that my soul is created 
anew, Annettie, and see how quickly I am telling it to you, 
because you have cared so faithfully for my sure salvation. 
I do wish, above all things, to walk and work with the 


56 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


children of God, and keep all His ordinances with blame- 
less fidelity. Pray for me, dear sister, that so I may, for 
Jesus’ sake. 

I told my friend Israel how often you had said the same 
things to me that he had said, and yet, the sin of procras- 
tination had never been overcome until now. I told him, 
too, that it filled me with shame and contrition to think 
how stupid and slow I have been in spiritual things. He 
looked sweetly sad and said, satan blinded your mind, and 
he will hate you now for loving the truth. His malice 
will follow you to hinder you from holiness, and to molest 
your happiness. So, “ be vigilant,” as the apostle tells us, 
and do not forget that we have an invisible “ adversary,” 
who “ goes about seeking whom he may devour.” 

Then I asked him, Annettie, to tell me some of his 
thoughts about sin and holiness, and some of his ways of 
growing more and more like our Divine Redeemer. He 
said it suited him to renew his repentance very often, and to 
meditate much on the words and ways of our incarnate 
Lord. It is also our wisdom and safety to remember that 
He can hear us, and see us, and help us now, as really He 
did the believers, when He walked and talked with them, 
while He dwelt in the flesh. “ Besides these greatest 
things,” said he, “I take for my example those holy men 
of old, whose names and histories are unstained with any 
crime.” I love to conjecture the ways, and words, and 
works, of Enoch, whose life was an entire walk with God. 
I love to think of Elijah, the servant and prophet of the 
Lord. How divinely perfect their lives must have been, 
when the all-seeing Father marked their obedience pre- 
eminently to men and angels, by taking them away from 
the earth, without feeling or seeing the shadow of death. 
“ Those wonderful men,” continued he, “ are delightfully 
sublime to my mind, yet Job, and Joseph, and Paul, are 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


-)7 


my models to emulate. We can know more about them, 
and life will never be dark or desolate to me, while I can 
strive to practice their devout integrity and love toward 
God in heaven, and fellow-men on earth. I must delight 
peculiarly in spotless human life. It seems to me that a 
person whose history is darkened by any sort of crime, 
must remember it with loathing and anguish through all 
eternity. Though God may forgive it, and blot it from 
the book of His remembrance, for Jesus’ sake — tho’ the 
blood of atonement may have washed the guilty soul from 
all uncleanuess — tho’ the tears of penitence be wiped away 
by the hand of Redeeming Love — tho’ the robe that is 
given and worn be ever so white — tho’ i»ie crown on that 
brow be ever so resplendent — tho’ the palm he bears, and 
the song he sings, be ever so triumphant — tho’ ‘ the just 
made perfect may love him ever so well ’ — still, it seems to 
me, there must be pain and poverty in the conscious memory 
of a single crime.” 

“And O,” continued he, “how easy it is for a finite 
human being to become a criminal. Any act of cruelty, 
any gross injustice, any dark ingratitude, seems criminal 
to me, tho’ it be only in a word, or in the omission of a 
word, when it is our duty to speak, it may be for the 
absent, or for the innocent, or for a righteous cause. 

I thanked him, Annettie, forexpressing himself so freely 
to me, and told him how his persuasion had convinced me 
of truth and duty as I had never been convinced before. 
I told him, too, that my wish to hear his life-history was 
a deepening wish. He smiled with a heavenly smile of 
serenity and love, and said: “It is more than pleasant 
to talk with you, Dr. Verily, about anything I know, 
whether it be temporal or spiritual. I wish you to 
know my unpretending history, and will recount it to you 
from the pages of memory whenever you have time to 


58 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


listen. Perhaps it is more like a folio than you imagine.” 
I asked him if he would be willing for me to write the 
most beautiful portions of it f >r my sister Annettie, and 
he said : “ O yes, if you think it will interest her heart or 
mind, write it.” 

You see I am intent on having you to appreciate my 
charming friend. He says he saw you once in a book 
store lookiug for a sheet of music and was charmed with 
your voice. I have told him so much about my sisters that 
he knows you very well. He is not strong enough now to 
do any kind of work, and it will be an interesting sort of 
occupation for him to talk to me about “ the days gone by.” 
I expect to enjoy it, Annettie, more than words can ever 
tell. But this letter is quite long enough, so good-night, 
dear sister. May the stars in your sky be always bright 
and all your dreams be sweet. 

Affectionately, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XI. 

Dear Annettie — To-day I spent a few hours with Israel 
in his own room, and if my pen could paint the indescrib- 
able you should see his living looks and hear the rich 
melody of his peculiar words. Did I ever tell you that 
his hair is brown and silken, over a pallid brow, and that 
his eyes are blue like the etherial sky? To kuow this will 
help your imagination to see his aspect when I tell you 
that he looks as if the glory and beauty of morning light 
had settled in his soul to keep him radiant and young for- 
ever. 

He began his promised narration by saying that his whole 
life had been a series of sorrows and sufferings, and toils 
and cares. “ The sky of my existence has never been at 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


59 


any time without clouds,” said he, “ tho’ there has always 
been some sunshine, some star of hope, some gleaming of 
the sweet blue space among the clouds, to whisper the sure 
mercies of the Lord and keep my spirit calm and strong. 
Physically, I was always fragile, and in the winters of my 
childhood my limbs were apt to be bent and lame with 
rheumatism. This was the first thing that I can recollect. 
But even then there was always something that I could do 
to be useful and give me a happy consciousness of worth. 
My lessons were regularly studied and recited to my mother, 
and for work I wound her yarn or knit gloves for my father 
and the well children. My father made me a little needle 
of bone, with which I knit very well. My mother often 
sang to me in those days and told me little histories, and 
taught me to memorize poems and pretty songs. I remem- 
ber now how sweet my mother seemed to me when she said, 
we ought to be very thankful to God that in my suffering 
the use of my hands and feet was not entirely taken from 
me. How Iloved the accents of her voice ! When she told 
me the history of Joseph and his brethr^h,-so deeply did it 
touch me, and so vivid was my young imagination, that it 
seemed to me for years as if I had seen it all with my 
physical eyes. I must have apprehended the pathos of 
that record then, but its sublimities seem to grow in gran- 
deur every time I read it.” 

“ Can you believe,” said he, “ that I have learned to 
know there are brothers living now as cruel and unjust as 
those who sold the innocent Joseph of old to the sons of 
Ishmael.” A deep sadness came over his face, Annettie, 
and the trembling of his voice convinced me that he felt 
too deeply the sad truth of which he had spoken. 

I took his hand in mine, while tears rolled down his 
pallid face, in spite of his effort to suppress them, but I 
was as mute as marble, until he calmed himself and said : 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


GO 

“You did not think, dear doctor, that there were deep 
surges of sorrow in my history when you said I must tell 
it all to you. I did not intend they should shake me like 
a reed,” said he, “ but the wounds that cannot heal will 
bleed sometimes.” I told him that sorrows make the most 
interesting part of human life, and that his sorrow was 
sacred and dear to me ; yet, as a physician, it was my 
duty to beg that he would dwell very briefly on those 
realities of life that are painful to him. His face grew 
brighter, as if my love consoled him, and he said : “ Dear 
friend, let me make some amends to you and to myself for 
the weakness I have just now manifested by reciting to 
you a little poem learned in my boyhood and kept in my 
memory as a song for my spirit — a type for my soul’s ideal 
of manly courage and strength.” I promised to listen with 
pleasure and with gratitude. Then, with a voice sweeter 
and deeper than it was before he wept, he recited the fol- 
lowing stanzas : 

“ I love^the man who well can bear 
Misfortune’s angry frown; 

I love the soul that spurns despair, 

Though all its friends have flown. 

“ I love the soul so nobly proud, 

That misery cannot blight — 

The soul that stems the jeering crowd, 

And sternly claims its right. 

“ I love that fortitude refined, 

Which sorrows cannot shake ; 

1 love the strength of soul and mind 
No earthly power can break. 

“ I love the man who scorns to bend 
Beneath affliction’s blast — 

Who trusts in an Almighty Friend 
To soothe his woes at last.” 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


61 


Is it not a rare little song, Annettie? I asked him who 
was the author of it, and he said he never knew. “ When 
I was a little boy,” said he, “ I found it among some frag- 
ments of newspaper, that had been torn from a bundle 
and thrown on my mother’s floor to be swept into the fire. 
I read it until it was fixed in my memory, and have 
never seen it in any other place.” Is it not strange, 
Annettie, that a little child should feel and fancy such 
sentiment as that song contains? Israel must have been 
a remarkable child. After we commended the poem 
and its author, he resumed his narration, and said : “ My 
father and mother were careful to impress the minds of 
their children with the importance of rectitude at a very 
early age. Truth, honor, integrity and justice were the 
first words my father ever taught me to understand, and 
certainly,” said he, “I did understand them, for I remem- 
ber vividly how much more essential they seemed to me 
than every other earthly thing. Life, my father said, was 
less than nothing without perfect integrity of soul and 
conduct, and he took pains to talk to us often about such 
•things. His words were always impressive, and I learned 
to love righteousness and hate iniquity before I learned to 
read. 

“This early love of all good and fear of all evil was a 
rich possession to me. It strengthened and ennobled my 
powers of thought, as well as my moral nature. Every- 
where, and in all things, my young mind was careful to 
discern the right and the wrong. It was easy and pleasant 
for me to do any right thing, however toilsome it might be ; 
but every wrong way seemed to me hideous and painful. 
The older I grew, the more clearly I understood the im- 
portance of these things. While yet a boy, it was natural 
for me to think out for myself the noblest and most 
generous rules and motives of life and action. Mere recti- 


62 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


turle was not sufficient for my aspirations. I wished to be 
more generous in feeling, and speaking, and acting, than 
any law required, either human or divine, so that if I erred 
it would be on the side of human greatness and human 
good. Such things as these were native to my childish 
mind, and when I was old enough to apprehend the divine 
commands and precepts of the Bible, they seemed to me 
just what I had loved to do all the days of my little life. 
It was joy unspeakable to know that our Father in heaven 
required nothing more than the unselfish and loving things 
that were so beautiful, and so easy for me to do. But, 
with all these tastes and occupations of heart and mind, I 
was not quite a happy child. Physical suffering and tasks 
too hard for me were oppressive to my nature. We were 
tolerably poor, though we lived in a home of our own, 
and always had a servant or two. My dear mother was 
always very busy, and often forgot to attend to me or 
soothe me with words that I needed from her. The toils 
and cares in a Christian home can never be counted or 
estimated by a finite mind. I often wonder at it now, 
when memory recalls the untiring diligence of my mother* 
in those early days of my life. I . had two brothers and a 
sister older than myself; two brothers and a sister were 
younger. I was the central child of seven, and there were 
often reasons for her attending to those that were older or 
younger, and leaving me, the suffering one, to wait and 
hope. I did wait and hope right well ; yet, sometimes the 
tears would well up from my heart, with a wish that my 
mother loved me more tenderly than she did. It is a great 
sorrow in the heart of a sick child to feel that its mother 
neglects it. But mine was a docile nature, and the sor- 
rows of childhood were easily dispelled. My sister Genevra 
was two years younger than I, and so gentle and radiant 
was she, that our father called her his sunbeam. From 


LIVING AND LOVING. f»3 

the time I can first remember her words and ways, she has 
ever been to me a ‘joy and a vision of gladnes*.’ My first, 
recollection of her is the sweetest picture in all the cabinet 
of my memories. I was six years old, and she was four. 
My rheumatism was distressing me one evening, and no 
one had time to come near my little bed, except Ge- 
nevra. She came, and laid her beautiful head of golden 
curls upon my heart, and wept as if her body and soul 
were both afflicted. I asked her what made her cry so. 
‘Oh! ’said she, ‘you are so sick, brother Israel, and it 
makes me so sorry.’ She never talked brokenly, as little 
children often do. Everything she said Was definite, and 
clear as crystal, and musically winning. Her tenderness 
was enchanting to me, and that evening it seemed to sweep 
all the cords of my nature, and attune me anew for all 
time. My life seemed more valuable — my sufferings 
seemed more endurable, and everything about our cottage 
home seemed to be pervaded with a sort of inaudible mel- 
ody. Child as I was, and suffering, my whole soul seemed 
to wake up to a full, clear sense of the beautiful and 
blessed bonds of brotherly affection. Away in the deep 
recesses of my heart, th.ere seemed to be a voice of love, 
and joy, and beauty, that could never die. Hr. Verily,” 
said he, “I remember it all to-day with the same sweet sense 
of joy that thrilled me then. Who can measure the power 
of a little child, to help, and console, and beautify the 
sufferings of this world, and lead us up to God?” And 
then he said : “Shall I tell you how my sister Genevra 
continued to be the sunshine and the starlight of our 
home ? All through my suffering childhood, she was 
vigilant and faithful as an angel to do all that she could 
for my consolation and comfort. She was a childish child, 
and yet she was thoughtful and tender as a womanly 
woman. By the time she was nine years old my health 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


64 

was tolerably good, and in winter, even, I could go out to 
work or play when the day was bright. Genevra seemed 
to enjoy my freedom even more than 1 did. For a long 
time she spoke of it every day, and always said something 
beautiful about it. Once she said to me: “The doctors 
could not cure you, brother Israel ; they said so. God 
must have done it, and oh! how good He is! I thank 
Him for it every morning when I wake, and every night 
when I am going to sleep.” 

Our dear father and mother taught us to be thankful to 
God for all our blessings, and yet, they did not teach their 
children how to pray. This has always been to me a great 
sorrow. I believe they prayed often and earnestly them- 
selves, and I have no doubt of their acceptance with God, 
yet the not teaching their children how to pray was a sad 
omission of duty, and it will always grieve me to think of 
it, while I stay in this curious world. Israel paused, and 
sighed, and then continued his narration, by saying, “The 
next great sorrow in my early life was stranger than any 
other, and more afflictive to me. Can you believe. Dr. 
Verily, that my own dear mother did not love me as she 
did the rest of her children ? It is true that she did not, 
and it is surely a great mystery, for I was to her the most 
tenderly devoted of all her children. There w r as once a 
short time when it seemed to me my love for my mother 
was growing cold, and nothing ever appeared so distressing 
to me as that apprehension. I turned my sad soul to God, 
with a supplication so earnest, and an anguish so intense, 
that He certainly did hear and help me. The feeling 
passed entirely away, and tho’ my mother often wounded 
and grieved me, it could never again hinder or chill the 
deep love I cherished for her. She has often told me that 
I was the most loving and faithful child she ever knew. 
Her unkindness to me was a great sorrow to my sister 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


65 


Genevra, and we often talked of it as a deep, dark mys- 
tery.” I told him, Annettie, that there is bu,t one solu- 
tion to such a mystery, and that is, the power of satan. 
When he cannot destroy the good and pleasant realities in 
Christian hearts and homes, he delights to hinder and tor- 
ment the innocent and the true. Then we talked of the 
goodness of God, where He says, “ When thy father and 
thy mother forsake thee, the Lord will take thee up.” 
You remember, Annettie, we have known several families 
in which some one child seemed to be an object of aversion 
to one of its parents, and we could almost see that it came 
from some satanic power, for the most deserving child in 
the family was always the one so afflicted. I told this to 
my dear Israel, and he said, the strangest thing in his case 
was the fact that his mother was tender and kind to every 
other person in her orbit of life and duty. Dr. Verily, 
said he, you are the only person, out of our own family, 
to whom I have ever related this sad reality of my life. 
A dying man does not think and feel as he did when he 
expected to live whole years on earth. I know and feel 
that the reeord on high will reveal all the sorrows of 
earth, however sacred or hidden they may be in this 
existence. It is pleasant to hope, my dear Doctor, that 
you will stand beside me in the land of light, and hear all 
that is recorded of my earthly pilgrimage. I will show 
you there the calm, sweet face of my priceless mother. 
She believed in Him who died to redeem the world, and 
now she is justified and made perfect. There has never been 
a time when I was not thankful to God for the gift of my 
mother. Through all things, she seemed to me both good 
and great. In the home of His glory, I hope to praise 
Him with an anthem of wondrous melody for the creation, 
and redemption, and immortality of my only mother. Dr. 
Verily, he said, with a look of intense emotion, be 


66 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


thankful that you still can see the living face of your 
mother. I pine, sometimes, with the heart of a little 
child, to see my mother and speak to her again on earth. 
I know it will be more delightful to see her in the sinless 
land of perfect love, yet I yearn to speak to her again on 
earth. God will forgive me for this and for all the way- 
wardness of my human heart. I thank and praise Him for 
creating me with intense affections. Here, Annettie, I took 
his hand in mine, and told him that his peculiar devotion 
to his mother confirmed me in the belief that his soul and 
mine were really akin to each other. You know, dear 
sister, I have always been a mother- worshipper, and I told 
him so. A look of joy came over his sad face, and he 
said, Then you have realized the most heavenly of all 
terrestrial joys ; for with that filial love we learn all the 
sweet spells of home — all the hallowed and beautiful reali- 
ties of family affection and duty. Then we talked of the 
sacredness of home, the parental home, where we grow 
from life’s morning up to the dignity and strength of man- 
hood — a home where we can serenely learn all that will 
make us fit to live, on earth and in heaven. Israel often 
comes with me to our quiet home, and seems to enjoy its 
beauty and repose, with mother and me. His manner to 
our dear mother is lovely — so deferential, and yet so 
unconstrained. He knows she is always glad to see him, 
and with our evening prayers and music, he seems at times 
to enjoy a foretaste of the heavenly home to which he is 
hastening. But I have told you quite enough about him 
for one written talk. You will think I am learning to be 
as enthusiastic in friendship as my sister Annettie. Cer- 
tainly we are both very fortunate in knowing such hearts 
and minds as our dear friends possess ; and tongue can 
never tell on earth how sweet it is to be understood and 
loved by such a person as Israel Arlington. The plaudits 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


67 


of the world are pleasing to all men, they are so to me — 
but common renown is nothing, when compared with the 
approbation and confidence of his enlightened mind and 
his great heart. How I wish you could know him, An- 
nettie, and hear the beauty of his living voice ! But my 
eyes are sleepy, so good night, sweet sister. May the 
peace of God keep your mind and heart forever more, is 
often j,he prayer of 

Your brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XII. 

Dear Annettie— I ought to tell you that my friend 
Israel loves the rural world with a passionate affection, and 
that his boarding place is in one of the private dwellings 
which stand in sylvan elegance beyond the noise and walls 
of. our beautiful city. He keeps a horse and buggy in 
order to have all the possible privileges of recreation in the 
open air. He is not well enough to walk much. Some- 
times he comes to my office and takes me to see my patients. 
Sometimes I go to see him in the morning and take him 
far out into the woodlands. 

Yesterday it was my privilege to spend several hours 
with my pale friend in the wild woods, where he seems to 
be happier than in any other place. His happiness was 
contagious, too, and I enjoyed it immensely. There was 
no path or nook where he did not find something to admire 
and make his words charming. It was a fitting time for 
him to resume the narration of his life, and he did so, by 
telling me about the home of his boyhood. You and I, 
Annettie, like word-painting, so I will give you the picture 
of that home as he gave it to me when we were driving 
slowly among the fields and forests only one day since. 


68 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


My father’s house, said Israel, stood on the summit 
of a slope, which was almost a hill. On the southern side 
it rolled deeper down than in any other direction, and 
there, in front of the house, and yard, and gardens, we had 
a woodland pasture of twenty acres. The trees were mostly 
sugar maple, and very beautiful to me was that rolling 
woodland pasture of blue grass. Our house was at first a 
white cottage with porches. Oa the eastern side of it there 
was a vegetable garden, and on the west a garden of small 
fruits. In both of these gardens there were flowers, and 
in the yard there were trees, and vines, and flow r ers, and 
many things of beauty. Wherever it suited to plant a 
chosen root or seed, there it was planted and cultivated, 
and thus our home grew into something lovelier than I 
have ever seen in any other place. The fields and pastures 
north of the house were almost level, and dotted here and 
there with little trees and little clusters of trees. In the 
forest of our domain, outside of those fields, there was a 
slope, and then a running brook, clear and cool, and con- 
stant as the polar star. No heat of summer ever hushed 
its liquid murmurings, and there was always a refreshing 
coolness in its waters. I could not tell how soothing that 
little rill has been to me in the toilsome time of sunshine 
and harvest. I have often left my plough to go down to 
its shady seclusion and lave my brow and hands in its 
crystal water. May I tell you, dear doctor, said he, 
that many times my boyish heart has offered devout 
thanks to God for that sweet rural gift from His holy 
hand? No one else that we knew had such a streamlet. 
And why was it there, gushing up in my father’s ground 
and running on from thence to help the rivers and the 
ocean with its gentle munificence? I told him, Annettie, 
that he was beautifully appreciative, and that I love him 
for being so. Then I asked him how old he was when he 


LIVING AND LOVING. 69 

began to plough. He said he was eleven years old, but 
his two elder brothers, Robert and Paul, could plough 
when they were nine years old. He went on to say, 
From the time I was eleven until I was sixteen years of 
age there was a quiet routine of country life in our home, 
which was beautiful to me. We worked in the summers 
and went to school in the winters. The boys walked to 
school in good weather, but my sister Norah rode on horse- 
back. Our school was two miles from our home. My 
sister Genevra was too fragile to endure the cold, so she 
studied at home. She studied everything that the rest of 
us did at school, and when the lessons were difficult she 
would ask father or some one else to help her understand 
them. She was the leading spirit among my father’s chil- 
dren, for when the school-days ended in the spring she 
kept us from laying the books aside, and we all felt the 
influence of her words and ways. It was wonderful to see 
how she improved every possible means and moment for 
the cultivation of mind and character. 

Dr. Verily, said he, it is curious to know how much 
can be achieved by earnest endeavor and the faithful em- 
ployment of small means — the saving of little moments 
and hours of time. A page or a few stanzas read in 
snatches of time will soon take one through a volume. 
Toiling children, who begin life with an earnest wish to 
become intelligent, can, in this way, lay up stores of knowl- 
edge by the time they grow to be men and women. Here 
his voice grew more plaintive, Annettie, and he said, I 
owe an immeasurable debt of gratitude to my mother for 
waking up early in the minds of her children a love for 
good books and a just idea of the value of knowledge. 
My father could not send us from home to classic halls of 
learning, and if we had not hungered and thirsted for 
knowledge of letters and literature we could not have ob- 


70 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


tained tolerable education, nor have been so happy and 
useful as we were. 

We were compelled to toil, and I think we all loved 
to be busy with useful occupation. It was fortunate that 
we enjoyed it, for listless hands could not have ploughed 
the fields, and planted the seeds, and gathered the har- 
vests that were all-important to our comfort and independ- 
ence. We were apt to be overtasked, but were happier 
and more cultivated than the most of our neighbors, who 
lived in comfortable ease and luxury. 

Here I interrupted him, Annettie, and said, It seems 
as if you were blessed with a rich store of family affec- 
tion, which is the most helping and beautifying of all 
terrestrial wealth. O yes, said he, we knew nothing 
of family discord in our home. Our dear father and 
mother taught us that brotherly love was a sacred obli- 
gation — an inviolable duty to them and to ourselves, 
and above all, to God, the Giver of good and perfect gifts. 
In those early days, it seemed to me that if any one of our 
family band should die, I could never smile again. The 
solicitude I felt for my brothers and sisters must have 
been singular for a child. It filled me with anguish very 
often to think they might die, or they might do wrong. 
It afflicted me to think that either of those dreadful things 
could happen to one of my brothers or sisters. It dis- 
tressed me, too, to think of their many toils and cares. In 
doors and out, and everywhere, there were tasks and duties 
that were sometimes difficult. But the mercy of God and 
the pleasant things in our home kept me from despond- 
ency. The love of my brothers and sisters was more than 
sunshine and melody to me. Then it was I asked him 
to tell me the names of his two youngest brothers. 
Alfred, he said, is the very youngest, and Mark is 
two years older. At the time of which we are talking 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


71 


now, both of them were good and charming children, and 
very important to the happiness of our family circle. 
They were not alike in person or in character, yet they 
were very fond of each other. Alfred was the pet of the 
entire family, and he gave to all a sweet share of affection 
in return. But children are as apt to have favorites as 
other people, and Alfred attached himself to me very 
decidedly, as soon as he could walk and talk. Often he 
would watch for my coming in from the field, and shout 
with joy at the sight of his own brother Israel. It was 
an untaught way of his to say own brother Israel , as if his 
deep young heart dictated something even more than 
brother. Here, Annettie, he sighed, and then said, I 
am glad, Dr. Verily, that our dear mother taught us to 
call each other brother and sister, from our infancy. It 
seems to me, in the retrospect, like music. Even now, in 
my desolated and dying days, it adorns the memories* of 
home, and deepens the fountains of my heart. There are 
no earthly words so beautiful to me as those of brother and 
sister — no other bonds so gentle and tender. Other ties 
may be stronger, and more essential in the economy of 
Infinite Wisdom — I honor and revere them all ; but to 
my heart and mind there is no affection so like heaven as 
that which we learn in the morning of existence, and 
twine around our brothers and sisters, as we grow beside 
them in the parental home. His pale lips trembled, 
Annettie, and he said, O, my dear friend, I can never 
tell, with mortal tongue, the power and depth of broth- 
erly love, as it was and is in my own heart. 

I told him that only a few persons were blessed with 
intense affections like his, and capable of loving or suffer- 
ing as he could love and suffer. 

He lifted the soft hair from his brow with pallid fingers, 
and grew brighter as he said, We will turn away just 


72 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


now from the loving and suffering, and I will tell you how 
ray father needed a new house by the time I was sixteen 
years old, and how all our industry and economy were 
devoted to that important object. By being very careful 
of our means, we could hire a brickmaker, and by working 
to help him ourselves, when the harvest was over, we 
made a large kiln of bricks. The next year, by the same 
sort of management, we built a house, with four rooms 
and a hall and a pretty portico. This, with the old house 
to help us, made quite a comfortable set of rooms. My 
father said that, before the old house would be worn out, 
we could build two ells with two rooms in each one, and 
so by degrees finish the new house without going in debt. 
By persevering, we did, in two years more, make the ells 
and porches. We had plenty of bricks, and made all the 
outer rooms that my mother wanted, for servants and for 
working. 

That grand old brick kiln, and the skillful management 
of my dear father, made great improvement about our 
pleasant home. We enjoyed it together a little while, 
and then — O how the changes and the shadows came and 
staid within that home, and deep within the hearts that 
lingered there ! 

But I ought to tell you more, dear Doctor, about the 
sweet old cottage, in which the infancy and childhood of 
my father’s children glided by, with all their joys and 
cares and brave endeavoring. 

My grandfather built it of walnut logs when he came 
from Virginia to Kentucky, leaving my father at the uni- 
versity in his native State. This house had only three 
rooms at first, but when my father came home with a 
bride, they added two other rooms. These, with passages 
and porches, made it comfortable for a small family. It 
was always picturesque and pretty, with white walls inside 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


73 


and outside. The whitewashing was skillfully done, for it 
was firm, like painting. When my father inherited this 
home, where his parents lived and died, he built three 
rooms more. He intended to spend his life in that home, 
and said he must have rooms, if they were made only of 
logs and mortar and made white with lime. And O, 
said Israel, with a look of returning joyousness, I wish 
you could ever know on earth how beautifully we lived in 
that rustic home of toil and care. We were given to hos- 
pitality and friendship in no common measure, and other 
people enjoyed that home, as well as did its inmates. My 
mother was a skillful housewife, and everything in her 
home was characterized by cleanness, and order and taste. 
My father delighted in gentle ways and words and all that 
makes life beautiful, and my mother loved to minister to 
his happiness by making his home, in all things, the very 
paradise of his wishes and his will. 

The family room in the old walnut house, has always 
been to me the most sacred place on earth. Now, when 
forty years have rolled over my head and my heart, it 
seems to me as it did in my childhood, “ the holy of holies.” 
It was essentially the room of the household — the inner 
recess of home. The great first lessons of life and truth, 
were taught to me and to iny brothers and sisters in that 
room. We have all been happy there — we have all 
been sick there. When weary, we have all rested in that 
sweet white room. My little bed was in that warm, 
bright room, where I suffered with rheumatism in the long 
winters — there my little sister cried herself to sleep on my 
heart, because she could not bear to see me suffer — and 
there it was that my childish mind woke up to the deep, 
sweet melodies of soul that can never die. I love to re- 
member the aspect of that delightful room, with the old 
clock standing in one corner, and book-shelves and pic- 


74 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


tures hanging on the white wall. My memory loves to go 
back and sit in that room, as it was when my father helped 
us with hard lessons in the mornings and evenings; and 
when he taught us Greek, and Latin and Hebrew, as a 
pleasing pastime. Those lessons were always short, but 
we have fuund them to be very valuable. I love to re- 
member how happy my father looked, when Genevra told 
him she liked Hebrew better than any other language, be- 
cause it was the language of Moses and the Prophets, and 
because God must have spoken to them in that dialect. 
She was only thirteen years old when she said such things 
as these. 

I told him, Annettie, that his sister Genevra must have 
had a very independent mind. “ Yes,” said he, “she 
had. And it was not possible to be with her without feel- 
ing her influence. She was not only elevated and origi- 
nal, but strength, and tenderness, and a spell of beauty, 
seemed to pervade all her thoughts and words and mo- 
tives. She was the most intellectual, and yet the most 
practical, of all my father’s children.” 

I told him they must all have been both practical and 
intellectual, or they could not have learned so much, and 
yet have accomplished so much common work. Our dear 
father, said he, taught us that “ great things are done by 
trying.” Certainly we did what we could, aud tried to do 
it well. May I tell you, Dr. Verily, that the denizens of 
cities and the people who inherit wealth from generation 
to generation, can never know anything about the heroic 
and lovely things that are demonstrated in many of the 
secluded homes that are nestled away in the beautiful soli- 
tudes and rural regions of our land — homes where industry 
and self-denial and skill must, often, supply the place of 
money — homes where truth and patient affection, fill the 
place with deeds aud tones of blessedness, that gold can 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


75 


never buy? And then, said he, do you know how much 
individuality there is in homes? The paradisiacal home can 
never come by chance ; and only those who make such 
homes and dwell in them, can ever know how they are 
founded, and finished, and kept in living beauty through 
all adversities. Taste, feeling, and goodness, and indus- 
try, must there go through every day with the rolling 
sun ; and when the sun goes down, the weary workers 
in those earthly homes of beauty, sleep, and wake to 
work again. But no matter for the toil and weariness ! 
There is peace, and joy, and affection, in those homes, 
that cannot be found in any other place this side of the 
paradise on high. Can you forgive me, dear Doctor, if I 
tell you it is my belief that the purest minds and deepest 
hearts on earth, are found in shady homes of toil and 
care, far removed from the atmosphere of the rushing 
world — homes where the mind can be serene and high, 
amid its cares, and the heart grow great and true in sym- 
pathy with the universe around it. There, it is, that all 
things God has made are eloquent of God. Here he 
paused, Annettie, and I put my arm ’round him, with a 
feeling of admiration and tenderness that words might not 
then express. I told him that this city had been my 
home all the days of my life, and it seemed strange to me 
that intellectual human beings could be happy and well 
educated in seclusion. Yet, I could believe all he might 
say in favor of retirement and rural life ; for certainly, I 
have never seen a person more cultivated and refined — 
more really fitted for living on earth and in heaven, than 
my chosen friend Israel Arlington : who is, by his history, 
a farmer, and the son of a farmer. 

He smiled one of his divine smiles, and said, Thank 
you, dear Doctor. Approbation from such a man as you 
are is never flattery, but encouragement. I prize it as a 


76 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


great blessing. And now, said he, let me ask if you have 
noticed, in studying the Bible, how many of its heaven- 
selected men were chosen from rural life and from obscur- 
ity ? From the patriarchs down to the apostles, shepherds 
and fishermen seem to have found peculiar favor in the 
sight of the Lord. Four, at least, of the chosen apostles 
were fishermen, and the favored one, whom the Divine 
Redeemer loved best of all, was one of them. 

David, the “man after God’s own heart,” was chosen 
King of Israel by divine appointment, when he was tend- 
ing the sheep in his father’s pastures. And then, what a 
lesson for all mankind there is in the fact that this illustrious 
and devout David fell into the most odious sins when war- 
ring with nations, tho’ his integrity had been faultless for so 
many years. How mightily it teaches that contact with a 
wicked world is a dangerous thing. I shudder to think 
how terribly God chastened David through all the remain- 
ing days of his earthly life. Tho’ his contrition was 
accepted, aud his suppliant psalms are the most pathetic 
of all human songs — though his life was amended, and his 
harp perpetually strung to the praises of the Lord, yet the 
retribution of God’s offended holiness followed David from 
the time of his hideous sinning until he entered the “ val- 
ley of the shadow of death.” 

Then, Annettie, we talked about the fearfulness of sin, 
and the beauty and safety of holy living, and the sweet 
hope we have of living in a world where there entereth in 
not anything that is unholy. 

I must not end this long epistle to you, my own sister, 
until we tell you that my name is enrolled among the 
obedient disciples of the Divine Redeemer. On last Sab- 
bath I gave myself solemnly to God, by obeying all His 
ordinances, and professing before men my perfect faith in 
Christ, as the only Savior — my love to Him aud to all who 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


1 7 


resemble Him in spirit and in truth. I do feel more like 
a happy child, Annettie — more as if my Father in heaven 
were smiling on me, and holding me in His hand. My 
feet seem really to be more firmly fixed upon the sure 
“ Rock of our salvation ; ” and like my dear Israel, I love 
to think that this sublime Rock is broader than the 
universe and whiter than snow. 

It is sweet to see how my friend enjoys the entireness of 
my consecration to God. He says it makes him feel more 
ready to die, and leave me on earth. I wish you could 
have seen him the first time I visited him after my dedi- 
cation to God. He closed the door of his room, and put 
one arm round me, and said : Dear brother in Christ, 
kneel here beside me, while I offer another word of 
adoration and love to God for His goodness to you, and 
to me, and to a needy world. And O, how beautiful 
were the words and tones of that brief thanksgiving and 
adoration ! The angels around us, and the angels in 
heaven must have enjoyed it, I am sure. 

A dying man can be more spiritually minded, perhaps, 
than any other man. My incomparable friend is evidently 
and certainly going down to the grave. His decline is 
very gentle, tho’, and almost beautiful. I stay with him 
every moment that it is possible to snatch from other duties, 
and it is a great pleasure to me to write for you the things 
that relate to his nature and his life. All the world, per- 
haps, is asleep just now except the owls and I, so good- 
night, dear sister, good-night. As ever, I am 

Your own brother, Walter Verily. 


78 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


LETTER XIII. 

Dear Annettie — This has been one of the loveliest 
days in the “ leafy month of June,” and I have enjoyed it 
with a heavenly sort of enjoyment. It has been filled 
with peace, and truth, and love, and an abundance of the 
beautiful everywhere — around, and above, and within us. 

I say us, for the most of the day has been spent with my 
friend Israel. We drove far into the woodlands and loitered 
in pretty places, and at noon we went to a rustic home and 
asked if we could get dinner and have our horse fed, like 
way-faring men. In the evening we parted at the gate of 
Israel’s abiding place, and now I am writing to tell you what 
I can of that part of his history wherewith he enriched me 
to-day. In the morning we sat whole hours on a beautiful 
hillside in the breezy shade. I told him that was a charm- 
ing place for him to give me the next chapter of his 
history. He turned his plaintive eyes to mine and said, 
I am glad, dear doctor, that you admire my parental home 
and enjoy my history. But, perhaps, it will not be so 
pleasing to you when we arrive at the more painful realities 
of my varied pilgrimage. All that is most serenely beau- 
tiful to me in the retrospect clusters about the old white 
cottage and the walnut rooms of my grandfather, where I 
slept aud waked in my childhood — where the ivies came 
in at the windows in summer and my mother trained them 
on the white ourtains in the morning and gently turned 
them out to the stars and the dews at night. When I 
dream of the past, that is always the place where the 
vision rises up and thrills my heart like a reality. It seems 
strange that all the deep trials that came upon us one by 
one were reserved for us iir the better dwelling, where we 
expected that family comfort and domestic joy might be 
more fully realized. 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


79 


I have not yet told you, Doctor Verily, that my dear 
father had no wish to be rich. His plan of life decided 
that he would live as well as his circumstances permitted 
and keep all his children at home with him as long as pos- 
sible. He said the world was filled with reprobates because 
rich men spoiled their children and poor men were so apt 
to send their sons away to battle with the world before 
they were fitted for the stern ordeal. He believed all this 
to be unwise and unfeeling, and his deep heart revolted at 
such parental faithlessness. He believed that home — the 
parental home — is the only place where human nature can 
grow into that excellence and beauty which God designed 
for it in this existence. He said if God would spare him 
and help him, all his sons should be thoroughly educated, 
morally, mentally and' practically, before theydeft his home 
to enter the difficult arena of the world. Life, he said, was 
really beautiful only to the good. Its toils, and cares, and 
duties, and pleasures are all divinely blessed, if right things 
are done in the right time, and the law and the fine lines of 
rectitude are understood and kept. He believed that it 
takes many years to develop character really and well, and 
he taught us constantly that we must “ learn to labor and 
to wait.” 

He said there was no other way of real progress upward 
and onward in this existence. He paused a moment, An- 
nettie, so I told him his father must have been a wise 
father. Yes, said he, my father was ble3t with wisdom 
and courage far beyond the common measure of men. I 
often think he was greater than the kings upon the thrones 
of earth. He ruled with great fidelity himself and his 
house, according to the law of the Lord. In adversity, he 
was calm and strong ; in bereavement, he was shaken like 
the oak in the tempest ; yet, like the tall tree and the 
ocean wave, he would grow calm and stand submissive in 
his own lot, looking ever up to Heaven and to God. 


80 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


My clear father and mother left nothing undone that 
would make home delightful to their children and comfort 
them in their toils and cares. Safe and beautiful as is the 
quiet life of a farmer, it is always a life of toil and care. 
But life is toilsome everywhere, and I believe that the 
sweetest rest on earth is found in rural homes like ours. 
We were overtasked in our gentle home because we were 
not strong enough to do the work that our tastes and style 
of living required, and we were not wise about some things. 
Wisdom is needed everywhere, and a farmer’s children 
need it constantly. It is wise for them to be diligent, 
and quite as wise for them to be moderate in their dili- 
gence. And what if I should tell you, Doctor Verily, 
that toil and care are often more beautiful than the roses 
of life, or that part of life which is most joyous! When 
I was a boy it distressed me for the corn or wheat to be 
blighted, because those whom I loved would suffer priva- 
tion on account of it. 

But the pains and privation seem noble and beautiful 
now in the retrospect. I love to remember, when there 
was but little money in my father’s purse, how patiently 
and sweetly my mother and sisters worked on — knitting 
and sewing, making over their old nice dresses, and mend- 
ing everything about the home with newer skill and in- 
vention. 

Nothing pecuniary could hinder our home from being 
happy in the mornings and evenings, and warm and 
bright in the winters. I love, too, to remember how 
busy and independent we always were. Whatever the 
blightings might be, God seemed always to be good and 
merciful to us. Adversities often develop the real nature 
and abilities of a family or person, and nothing else can 
weave around the hearts of the tender and true, such 
mighty bonds of affection. Every common cross, and 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


81 


Care, and weariness of the dear ones in ray parental home, 
seemed to draw out new tendrils from my heart, to twine 
and cling, and fasten me there, to help and to console 
them. 

I have told you, dear Doctor, how we made the new 
house and lived in it, but you have not been told how 
much skill and taste was exhibited by my mother and 
sisters, in making the old furniture look well in the new 
house. Indeed, the rooms looked almost elegant, with 
exquisite arrangement and neatness. We could not afford 
anything new, at first, except a pretty mirror for the par- 
lor. My brother Robert had a passion for mirrors, and 
insisted on getting a new one for the new parlor. He 
said there was utility in mirrors — people ought to see 
how they look at all times. If they look well, it encour- 
ages them — if they look not well, it helps them to amend — 
if they are beautiful, the picture is more perfect than 
artist can ever paint — and if they are old or sick, it 
admonishes them gently about passing away. Our dear 
father said that Robert was such a wise philosopher, he 
must get the new mirror, by all means. 

I told him, Annettie, that his brother Robert must be 
a man that “can render a reason” for all his wishes. O 
yes ! said Israel, with a smile of brotherly pride and ten- 
derness, my sister Genevra used to say, Our brother Robert 
is one of the modern wise men. My dear father always 
enjoyed the sound judgment and forethought of his son 
Robert — his oldest child. He was thoughtful and manly 
at an early age, and singularly domestic. There was 
nothing about the home, indoors or out, that did not 
interest him. From the planting and reaping of fields, 
down to the violets in the grassy yard, he saw nothing 
with indifference. If the hearth before him needed sweep- 
ing, Robert swept it ; if mother’s hair was not perfectly 
6 


82 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


smooth on her brow, Robert smoothed it ; if aunt Siller 
came in from the kitchen with an untidy apron, he 
was sure to tell her it was unlawful to wear such a 
thing. 

All my father’s children were domestic, and attentive 
to the many things that make life good and beautiful in 
such a home as ours. But my brother Robert, and my 
sister Genevra, and Israel — your friend — were always 
more vital and vigilant than the others in devotedness to 
the home, and to every living thing that belonged to it, 
either animate or inanimate. 

My sister Norah was amiable, and very obedient, from 
ber early childhood ; but she had no plans or purposes, 
great or small, for the amendment of home, or for the 
more perfect comfort of its inmates. She was satisfied if 
she had done, or was doing, just what she was told to do,, 
and nothing more. She never wearied herself trying to 
make things charming and keep them so. Consequently 
she was always tranquil and happy in her way. 

My sister Genevra was quite as obedient and faithful as 
Norah in all that she was told to do, but that did not satisfy 
her heart and conscience. Like a bee, she was busy ; and 
like an artist, she was evermore giving new touches here 
and there, to make something more perfect, or some one 
more comfortable. She would often exhaust her strength, 
for she was the most fragile- of us all, and when exhausted 
she would weep and moan like a distressed child. Sweet 
sister, how much she suffered, trying to do all she wished 
to do for our home, and for the loved ones there. Only 
my father, and brother Robert, and I, seemed to under- 
stand and appreciate her nature and her sufferings. Norah 
said she was willful — and the little brothers, Mark and 
Alfred said, they wished sister Genevra would be like 
sister Norah, and let everything go the easiest way. They 


LI VI NG AND LOVING. 


83 


all lived to learn the great difference between the sister 
who voluntarily exhausted her strength for others, and 
the sister who was satisfied in her orbit, with doing only 
what mother told her to do. 

Gentle, and tender, and wise, and brave, and good, was 
my sister Geuevra ! I feel her influence yet. Certainly 
God was very good when he created her a living soul and 
gave her to us. Here, he grew silent, Annettie, with a 
look so divinely pensive, that I was silent and thoughtful 
with sympathy. After a time, he sighed and said, both 
of my sisters were popular and attractive in society, but 
Geuevra was not seventeen years old, when Norah afflicted 
us all by marrying a person entirely unworthy of her. 
This reality, my dear Doctor, fills up to overflowing the 
bitterest cup that I have ever drank. All my other sor- 
rows seem beautiful compared with this sorrow — the mar- 
riage of my sister Norah to a man who had no regard for 
truth, and no reputation for integrity. 

My democratic father permitted him to visit our home, 
never dreaming that it was possible for a child of his to 
be interested in such a person. His education was suffi- 
cient to make him cultivated, and there was no want of 
capacity about him, except that he seemed incapable of 
rectitude. He seemed to inherit from all darkness an in- 
nate love of falsehood and pretension. He was the exact 
antipode of all that our parents had taught us to revere 
and love in human character and human life. It is not 
extravagant to say I was thunder-struck, when told that 
my sister Norah intended to marry Eli Wolverton. I 
could not believe it, and when my mother told me it was 
really true, I said it must not be. We cannot submit to 
an alliance so humiliating and injurious. Our family all 
felt as I did. But my father had always said his children 
should marry to suit themselves, and, tho’ this betrothal of 


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Norah distressed him, he was silent. My brother Robert, 
however, was wiser. He persuaded Norah to discard Eli 
Wolverton, and after it was done, she said to Robert : 
Do not be afraid, dear brother, that I will ever change my 
mind and marry him.* You may believe me when I tell 
you, I never will. Doctor Verily, continued Israel, there 
has never been a fiction, stranger than some of the reali- 
ties that my own eyes have seen. In a few months after 
Norah had said to my brother Robert all that I have told 
you, she deliberately announced to him her intention to 
marry Eli Wolverton. He had addressed her again, and 
her weak heart decided to share his lot in life, no matter 
what it cost the entire house of her father — with all their 
sensibility, and truth, and affection. Satan, I am sure, 
must have beguiled her, as he did Eve in Paradise. Cer- 
tainly, no daughter of my father’s house, trained to a love 
of truth and human dignity, could ever have loved such a 
person as Eli Wolverton if left to her own innate percep- 
tions. The mofe I think about it the more it seems to me 
the work of Satan and his angels. My sister Norah’s 
heart seemed to be changed to adamant. Genevra per- 
suaded her with tears and with strong reasonings again 
and again to spare us from a sorrow so hideous and humil- 
iating. But Norah said it was all prejudice and injustice. 
She could see none of the faults in him that were so plain 
to us. Even the self-sufficiency in his manner seemed to 
interest and attract her. 

I was not then nineteen years old, and Norah was two 
years older ; yet my heart impelled me to persuade her 
savingly, with a brother’s earnest entreaty ; but she 
seemed to be both deaf and blind to all that could be 
urged as a fault of Eli Wolverton. Brother Robert was 
so amazed and wounded by her broken promise to him, 
that he turned silently away from her in a sort of despair, 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


85 


but his aspect and manner were more expressive than 
words; and the sad looks and tones of our dear father 
and mother might have softened any heart of flesh, or 
persuaded any human mind to pause and be afraid of its 
own willfulness. But Norah was infatuated. She “ proph- 
esied out of her own heart,” and followed the dreamy 
fancies of her own will, and serenely married Eli Wolver- 
ton, in the face of all that was said and suffered by those 
who had loved her all the days of her life. If my sister 
had been less lovely, it might have beeen less terrible to 
my heart and mind ; but she was worthy of a noble name, 
and the love and care of the most honorable. She was 
graceful and elegant in person, while her amiable nature 
and cultivated mind made her a being fit to bless and 
adorn the life and home of a most worthy husband. Then, 
Annettie, the noble face of my dear Israel grew paler and 
sadder than I had ever seen it before, and his voice 
seemed to sink and sicken while he said, O, my dear 
friend ! May you never be compelled to feel how many 
sorrows inevitably grow out of one sorrow like this in- 
flicted by my sister Norah. The deadly upas tree is like 
this marriage of my sister, if it has a thousand branches 
to distill its poison and overshadow its victims. To me, 
the earth, and air, and sky, have all been filled with 
touches of corrosion, and thorns, and clouds, ever since I 
saw my sister wedded to a reprobate. It was difficult to 
forgive her for loving such a person, and quite as difficult 
to forgive her for pleasing herself, by marrying a man 
whom she knew to be odious to so many of her own fam- 
ily. Nothing ever was or is so difficult for me to endure 
as the humiliation it inflicted on my nature and ray sense 
of right. It was a torturing thought, that Eli Wolverton 
should go in and out of our home as a member of our fam- 
ily. Integrity was our richest earthly heritage. We 


86 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


loved rectitude better than we loved life, or any other 
privilege this life can give, and Eli Wolverton, iu his in- 
tercourse with men, had often demonstrated himself to be 
incapable of truth and integrity. It is injurious to know 
such a person. It revolted me to see my little brothers 
walk and talk with him as a kinsman in our home. G>d 
will forgive me, I hope, for repining at the burden and the 
bitterness of this dark sorrow, which was thrust upon me 
and them that I love by my innocent and wayward sister. 

Here, Annettie, I could not be silent, and I said, pardon 
me, my dear Israel, if it is impossible for me to think a 
person innocent, who could deliberately inflict such sor- 
row upon the friends who loved her so well. You said 
your sister Norah was bewildered by a satanic spell, and 
so she was. It cannot be that people are innocent when 
they permit the great destroyer to lead them into blind- 
ness of mind, and waywardness, and cruelty. This world 
is all too lenient to that multitude of men and women who 
afflict and oppress their best friends, by marrying as did 
your willful and unfeeling sister Norah. Dear Annettie, 
it is wrong to be too patient with plausible iniquity ; 
cruelty is always iniquity, and the sister of my dear Israel 
has inflicted on him a torture that cannot be mitigated, 
until it has done its part in hastening him on to a bitter 
existence. O, Annettie, what would life be worth to me 
if you had married such a man 'as Eli Wolverton? I 
would never call your name when it could be avoided. I 
would forget you if I could, and when compelled to think 
of you, I would wish to cover my face from the light and 
from every living thing, and pray in agony to the God of 
mercy to help me. Perhaps I was a poor comforter to my 
suffering friend, for I could not think that he exaggerated 
his affliction, or that his sensibilities were too refined. I 
loved and honored his nature even more in that sad hour 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


87 


than ever before, and ray only skill that seemed worthy of 
him, was the perfect sincerity of my mind and heart. He 
knew that I was blest with sisters, aud that they are very 
dear to me. So it was easy to make him feel my sym- 
pathy and forgive my condemnation of his innocent sister. 
I asked him if she did not repent her willfulness and 
cruelty. If she did, said he, we never have seen a sign or 
token of her contrition ; tho’ she parted from Eli Wolver- 
ton, after fifteen years of married life, and came home with 
her four children and sorrows, to oppress my sad mother 
in the days of her widowhood. 

I told my dear Israel that his sister Norah must have had 
uncommon blindness of mind, and the most wayward of 
human hearts. Yes, said he, she is distressingly willful, 
tho’ to common observers she seems peculiarly docile and 
gentle. Many persons admire her as a lovely martyr, 
while they take no notice of the suffering and oppression 
she willfully inflicted on others. If she had ever said or 
done any thing to make the least amends, it would be a 
little more tolerable, but she never has done so. The angels 
of darkness seem to have bound and bewildered her ever 
since she broke her promise to brother Robert, and deter- 
mined to marry Eli Wolverton. Alas! for my sister 
Norah, he said, and the tears came into his glorious eyes. 
I hope the all-merciful Father in heaven will pity her, and 
save her with His ^reat salvation. I can almost forgive 
her, tho’ she has not suffered half so much as she has 
caused others to suffer. It is difficult to forgive her for 
the anguish, and care, and toil, she inflicted on my mother, 
in the evening of her life, and the deep distress she has 
been to my sister Genevra. My dear Doctor, he said, I 
talk to you with great freedom about this hideous afflic- 
tion of my father’s house, partly because you are my dear 
high-minded friend, and partly because you are a student 


88 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


of human life, and partly because I wish you to know my 
entire history, and my nature. I told him the true dig- 
nity of his character was strikingly manifested in narrating 
to me that portion of his history. I thanked him for his 
generous confidingness, and told him it afflicted me to see 
how intensely he suffered with that bitter sorrow. As his 
physician and his friend I begged him to think of it as 
little as possible. He promised to remember my advice, 
and said he felt consoled by my sympathy. But O, said 
he, it is not in the power of a finite mind to apprehend the 
suffering I have endured, because of this hideous marriage 
of my sister. If Genevra had married as she did we would 
have been “swallowed up of evil.” And you will not 
wonder that I think of such a thing when I tell you that 
Eli Wolverton had a brother like himself in dishonoring 
attributes, yet much more interesting in mind and manner, 
and that he loved my sister Genevra with a romantic affec- 
tion. He addressed her when she was sixteen years old, 
tho’ she never had tolerated his attention, and really dis- 
liked him. She told me it was humiliating to be loved by 
a person who had no regard for truth, and no understand- 
ing of rectitude. Dear brother Israel, she said, I wish 
there could be a social law, that would exclude such peo- 
ple as the Wolvertons from good society. It is painful 
and injurious to associate with such unworthy pretenders 
to respectability. I told her that the young Wolvertons 
were tolerated for the sake of their very respectable rela- 
tions, and that such things make it important for us to 
cultivate the perceptive faculty which will enable us to 
give to individual character a just place in our estimation. 
And that is what you always do, my own sister. And 
then, Annettie, he said, with feeling, I tell you, Dr. Ver- 
ily, if Genevra had married Gallio Wolverton, I would 
have left this entire continent, and every kindred tie, to go 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


89 


and live on the summit of Mount Carmel. In that sacred 
place and mountain air, I would have dwelt with God and 
the beauliful universe, and prayer, and toil, and the Bible, 
and hopes of heaven, should have been my consoling 
friends. It would have soothed my woe to live where no 
human being might ever speak to me of my sisters, or ask 
me a question concerning them. These thoughts, and this 
remedy for the affliction I could not endure, came into my 
mind when Norah was married, but for the sake of the 
dear ones at home I tried to be patient and suffer, standing 
in my lot as a faithful son and brother. 

Poor Genevra was tortured as much by Norah’s mar- 
riage as I was, and always believed it to be satanic. She 
never outlived the humiliation and pain it inflicted, and 
when Norah parted from her husband it made every thing 
darker and more hideous. 

And now, my dear Doctor, said Israel, have I told you 
enough about this blighting leprosy in the house of my 
father, and in the heart of your dying friend ? I told 
him, Annettie, that he must permit me to say how strange 
it was, that his father could silently suffer his daughter to 
wed such a man as Eli Wolverton. O yes, said Israel, it 
was a curious omission of parental duty. And my dear 
father learned to think it a fatal error for any one to say 
that a person ought to marry whoever they may choose. 
The fact that they so often choose to part from that same 
person, proves the fallacy of such an argument. I wish 
you to know, Dr. Verily, that my father learned to see the 
importance of parental duty to prevent miserable alliances 
for their children ; and he would speak of it as if he 
wished to make amends to his family, and to society, for 
the greatest error of his life. Our dear mother believed 
that “ matches were made in heaven and that had kept 
her silent, in view of the decision of human hearts. But 


90 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


after Norah parted from Eli WolvertoD, mother changed 
her old fashioned belief, and said she could see now that 
matches were sometimes made far away from heaven and 
from God. And then, Annettie, Israel covered his face 
with his hands, and wept as if his great heart was broken. 

I sat beside him in silent sadness, and thought, how 
fearful a thing is misguided affection, when it can thus 
afflict even one being, so brave, and tender, and excelling, 
as Israel Arlington. You know, dear sister, that we, the 
children of men, are apt to think our own sorrows greater 
than any other sorrows, or, at least, to forget how many 
sorrows there are in the world, darker and more oppressive 
than ours. It is not so with my dear Israel. He seems 
to be more sensible of the divine mercy when he talks of 
his own sufferings than at any other time. To-day, when 
he had wiped away his own sad tears, he turned to me 
and said, If the sorrows of ray lot are so painful to me, 
what must be the anguish of those who perish in their 
affl ction, and what must be the sufferings of them that 
live on in affliction that I could not endure. There are 
sorrows in the world that I could not endure ; and my 
gratitude to the Father of mercies is unutterable, when I 
remember that He has not suffered the great destroyer to 
afflict me with the loathliest sorrows of this world. And 
then, Annettie, he talked of the goodness of God — His 
truth, and power, and love, until his anguish all seemed 
driven away by the solacing that comes from above. 
Why is it, dear sister, that so few people talk much about 
God and spiritual realities? I know very few Christians 
who talk as freely about heavenly and eternal things as 
they talk about commou trifles. My dear Israel is the 
only man I know who glides into sacred things as if they 
were all-pervading, like the vital air, and like the air, 
essential to human life. 1 do believe he is the most 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


91 


rational person that I know. Certainly there is no one 
else in my pathway who is so justly alive to the realities 
of time, and yet so perfectly awake to all that relates to 
God and the sublimities of eternity. Can it be that 
sorrows have rt fined him into this gentle dignity, and 
driven him to drink of the waters of life and the foun- 
tains of wisdom, with a faith and love like unto the faith 
and love of a little child ? We are told that the Redeem r 
of the world was made perfect through suffering, and why 
is it, dear sister, that we are all so much afraid to suffer? 
I am almost in love with the sorrows of life that have no 
sin in them. There is a great difference between sorrow 
that sin inflicts, and sorrow that does not grow from seeds 
of wrong. Sickness, and toil, and care, and death, are 
inevitable to the best of mortal men ; so I call them sin- 
less sorrows, and feel willing to endure them. But the 
great sorrow of my dear I-rael was ii dieted by sinful 
waywardness, and it is filled with thorns of torture. The 
thought of it is sad to me, Annettie. But we will dwell 
on it no longer. This letter is too long, so adieu, my dear 
sister, and good-night. 

Truly, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XIV. 

Dear Annettie — Yesterday I spent a few hours with 
Israel in his sweet room, and as we sat near a window that 
looked out upon the green and leafy world, he took up the 
narration of his history voluntarily, as if the air and light 
of summer were filled with realities that he felt but could 
not see, except in memory. lie began by saying, You 
shall have another sad chapter of my history now, dear 
doctor, for the whole world is reminding me of the sum- 
mer time in which my brother Paul sickened and died, 


92 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


only a few months after the marriage of my sister Norah. 
It was in this same leafy month of June. The earth was 
wearing her richest robe and crowned with her fairest 
flowers. Our home was looking like E len, I am sure. 
The fields and meadows were beautiful and full of promise. 
In my father’s house we all slept tranquilly in those radiant 
nights of summer, but in one of the bright mornings my 
brother Paul woke up with a strange headache and fever, 
and the summer time grew sad and solemn to me even 
until now. He was too ill from that first morning for us 
to hope he would recover. He lived, and suffered, and 
talked with us six days more, and then his bright, brave, 
gentle spirit parted from us and from earth to return unto 
God who gave it. Here he covered his face, Annettie, 
and sat in silence with his dead for a few moments; then 
he spoke calmly pn and said, My brother Paul was a Chris- 
tian, and his parting words to us were full of hope, and faith, 
and love. He said life had been dear and beautiful to 
him, but since sister Norah was married everything on 
earth had changed, and he felt that God was good in 
taking him away to his heavenly home. He did not wait 
till the last hour to speak his parting words, but all his 
sick days were filled with parting thoughts about heaven, 
and earth, and life, and death. He gave to mother his 
hymn book ; to me, his Bible; and to sister Geuevra, his 
beautiful horse. It was all overwhelming to me then, but 
now it is soothing and sweet to remember those sad days of 
parting converse with my dying brother. This sorrow is 
beautiful and holy compared with the sorrow inflicted by 
my sister Norah. But at the time of Paul’s death I thought 
of nothing but Paul and the anguish of bereavement. It 
was the first death in our family since I could remember, 
and it transformed me, I was not a Christian until after 
I looked upon the lifeless face of my dear brother. Then 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


93 

it was I felt the need of redeeming power and redeeming 
love. Nothing seemed to me of any value without the 
favor and the help of Him who has all power in heaven 
and on earth. I had always believed the Bible to be 
perfect light and perfect truth ; had always loved the 
Divine Redeemer, and worshiped Him for the glory, and 
mercy, and goodness of His manifestation to this needy 
world, but I had never entered His visible fold — never 
taken a palpable place among His “ peculiar people.” I 
had waited to be more like the saints before I professed to 
be a disciple of the Holy Redeemer, but when my brother 
died, I could no longer wait to sit low at the feet of the 
incarnate Lord and testify my faith and love before men 
on earth and angels in heaven. Nothing had power to 
soothe me, or help me look up from the grave and the 
vacant place in our home, until, with a broken and contrite 
heart, I gave myself entirely to God. My spirit pined to 
get as near to him as I could by a more perfect faith and 
an implicit obedience to all his commands, his appoint- 
ments, his precepts. I went to the sanctuary and gave 
myself up to the visible church, and to the helping influ- 
ence of its sacraments, its songs, its prayers and its people. 
From that time till now, Dr. Verily, my soul has been 
growing in grace and in knowledge of God. My sense of 
neediness has never abated ; my faith in Christ has never 
grown dim ; ray love to Him has never grown cold. The 
more I read the Word of God the more I delight in its 
wonderful truth, and beauty, and holiness. “It is the 
power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth.” 

But the anguish of that first bereavement can never 
quite depart from me while I dwell in the flesh. Nothing 
on earth nor in the sky, nothing in life nor in myself, has 
ever seemed the same to me that it did before I saw my 
gentle and manly brother die. Once in his life I remember 


94 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


to have spoken impatiently or unkindly to him, and that 
one memory suffices to keep me forever in the valley of 
humility. If all this world had been mine after his death, 
I would gladly have given it to speak to him again and 
tell him how contrite I was for those two or three impa- 
tient words, tho’ I do not believe he had felt or remembered 
them. Then, Annettie, he took my hand in his and said, 
It is sometimes “ good to be afflicted.” All this sorrowing 
about the life and death of our dear Paul makes me a 
better man, and gives me a sacred sort of happiness. I 
can believe that a lifetime of adversities and sorrows may 
be, to some persons, the most fortunate of earthly portions. 
Anything that keeps us away from frivolity — anything 
that refines the soul and lifts it upward — anything that 
helps to make us brave, and tender, and wise, and faithful, 
and loving — anything that helps to make us gentle, and 
just, and holy — we should prize, and call it a mercy and 
a blessing. Some plants are sweet only when they are 
bruised, and gold is never refined except by fire. Thus it 
is with many a human soul ; they are loveliest and best 
after the crushing or the crucible of sorrow. 

Then, Annettie, we sat silent and thoughtful in the 
summer air, and when my dear Israel felt like talking 
again, he sighed, and looked lovelier than any joyous face 
can ever look to me. Then he said, I ought to tell you, 
dear Doctor, how sweetly my brother Paul talked to me 
the very last evening before he grew sick. We sat an 
hour or two in the open air, between the house and the 
fl >wer garden, where we had made some rustic seats under 
our old elm tree. We had both worked in the fields all 
day, and the beautiful repose of evening was delightful to 
our weariness. Paul seemed to enjoy the air and the sky 
peculiarly. He said the universe had never looked so 
glorious and beautiful to him, since Norah was married, 


living and loving. 


95 


as it did that evening — that he felt more as if he could 
endure the burden and bitterness of that distress. The 
stars, he said, were so full of the power and glory of the 
Creator, that they always lifted him up with strength and 
hope when he had time to contemplate them. Weariness 
and sorrow, he said, often unfitted him for meditation or 
enjoyment. But when he could feel < the power of any 
visible thing the stars were sure to seem eloquent, and fill 
him with a sense of love and joy that never had grown 
old. Dear brother Israel, he said, I have sometimes pre- 
sumed to wonder that David, the royal Psalmist, did not 
sing more about the stars of night — the stars of light. 
They have seemed holy to me, as well as grand and glo- 
rious, ever since my childhood, when father taught me to 
read and understand the history of the nativity of our 
Divine Redeemer. My young imagination saw the star of 
Bethlehem, as it moved in wondrous beauty above the 
Judean hills, to guide the magii to the place where the 
young child was born.” I remember, now, how it looked 
to my mental eyes. It was not very easy for me to believe 
it could set over the place where the wise men wished to 
worship the Messiah, until my father told me, that star was 
not a natural phenomenon, but was evidently miraculous, 
and when it had answered its purpose it vanished from the 
sky. That is easy to believe, and so is all that relates to 
the divine nativity. But I can never tell how my childish 
mind enjoyed the star-lit sky, that bent above “ the shep- 
herds, as they kept watch over their flocks by night,” 
when the angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the 
glory of the Lord shone round about them, and the angel 
said, “ Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which 
shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in 
the city of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.” 
Then he said, do you know, brother Israel, how beautiful 
is the faith of a little child ? 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


% 

It was not often that Paul talked so freely about any 
thing. He was apt to be silent and thoughtful, yet some- 
times he talked, and always talked interestingly. I am 
thankful now for the words he spoke to me that evening, 
and for power to remember the accents of his voice. How 
little we thought that his last day of health on earth was 
ending, in that sweet hour of star-light and brotherly 
communion. 

Dear Annettie, I wish you could have seen the divine 
expression of face, and heard the deep pathos of voice, 
with which Israel related to me this little history of his 
first bereavement. I hope to remember forever his aspect 
and his accents, as he sat before me then, with his sorrow, 
his faith and his affection. No artist on earth has such a 
picture as this, that was set in my memory then, by Israel 
Arlington. No pencil could ever paint the living light in 
his glorious face. You know, dear sister, how well I love 
to look upon bright, joyous faces, but no face has ever 
enslaved me like the pensive, soul-lit face of my dear 
Israel. And yet, let me tell you, his smile is sometimes 
radiant, and his cheerfulness brilliant and happy. 

But he was sad that day of which I am telling you, and 
I took him home with me, as the best of remedies for his 
sickness and his sorrowings. Mother was even lovelier 
than usual that evening, and I felt as if blest with the 
sweet companionship of two incarnate angels. Every- 
thing in our home seemed almost perfect. It may be that 
the invisible angels of peace and love were with us, to 
strengthen and soothe the heart of my sorrowing friend. 
The organ and harp were both in their best mood, and the 
songs we sang sounded sweeter than usual, especially the 
sacred songs with which we ended our evening melodies. 
When mother asked Israel to read a psalm and offer 
prayer, in our evening devotions, he did it all with the 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


97 


dignity of a divine, and yet with the simplicity of a little 
child. The ninety-first Psalm never seemed quite so 
devout and beautiful to me as it did that evening, and 
human supplication never sounded more devotional to me 
than the prayer of my dear Israel. It was so solemn, 
so contrite, so believing, and confiding, and earnest, 
that I inevitably followed his words up to the throne 
of God, and realized how blessed is the privilege of man, 
when he can so commune with his Creator, and ask for 
mercies in the name of his Redeemer — mercies which He 
alone can bestow. I must say again, dear sister, that it is 
a rich blessing to have such a friend as Israel Arlington, 
even for a few months, in this World. Certainly he has 
done me much good and no evil. I would be like him, if 
I could. It is so safe, and sweet, and glorious, to be a 
child of light, and walk in the paths of peace and holiness. 
Pray for me, my sister, that I may be “a conqueror 
through Him that loved me and gave Himself for me.” 
I desire above all thing*, like Paul, to “press forward to 
the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in 
Christ Jesus.” I tell you these things, Annettie, because 
you have cared so long and tenderly for my spiritual 
welfare. Thank you again, my own sister, for all your 
loving kindness to me. 

And now, good-night. Tnink of me ever as 

.Your own brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XV. 

Dear Annettie — It gives me great pleasure to be told 
by you, that the character and history of my friend Israel, 
is all so very interesting to you. I knew it would be so ; 
and yet it is pleasing to hear you talk of it with your own 
pen and words. It encourages me to write historic letters 
7 


98 LIVING AND LOVING. 

to you in the evenings, when I am not too weary or too 
busy. 

My dear Israel resumed his narrative a few days ago by 
saying, You ought to know, my own doctor, something 
more about the desolation that settled in our home, after 
the death of my brother Paul. For a long time the very 
sunshine seemed unfeeling, because it did not grieve, and 
it pained me to hear any sound that was not sad. The 
first time that my sister Genevra smiled, Robert and I 
both wept, tho’ we wanted her to smile; for her moanings 
day and night had been distressing to hear. For many 
weeks, sleeping or awake, she wailed inevitably, as if the 
surges of her sorrow could not be silent. There was no 
corner of our home where her deep, wordless anguish could 
not be heard, and when she smiled we wept, because her 
smile was so strangely sad. 

The greatest earthly consolation in our home was the 
sympathy that bound us tenderly together in our grief for 
Paul. Perhaps there is no place where bereavement is felt 
so intensely, as in a rural home like ours. Every member 
of the family band is essential to the whole, and the af- 
fections there entwine until home becomes an entire little 
world of love to all who have grown together in its con- 
fines. Every human home is, really, a little world, but it 
is the rural home that sits in its own green isle, and keeps 
its children dearer to each other than any other home. 

But even in our home, with its intense affections, the 
darkness of bereavement grew, at length, into star-light 
and repose. Time, and prayer, and resignation, and faith, 
can heal and consecrate a sorrow like that. 

For almost a whole year our home was tranquil after 
the death of Paul. Then there was a call for volunteers, 
to go and fight for our rights against Mexico, and my 
dear father expressed a wish that one of his sons should 


LIVING AND LOVING . 


99 


go. Brother Robert and I were not quite certain that it 
was a duty for one of us to leave our family obligations and 
go to the conflict, when there were so many other men, 
more free from domestic bondage than the sons of my 
father. R tbert was the only one who was a grown and 
vigorous man. He was the only sure staff and helper for 
our parents. They were growing old, and Mark and Al- 
fred were too young for heavy burdens. I was only 
twenty years old, and by no means vigorous, yet it was 
plain to me that Robert was not the man to be sent from 
our needy home, and given, perhaps, as a slain offering 
upon the altar of his country. It was difficult for our 
father to decide which of the two he would send into the 
deadly strife, and I begged him to let me decide that 
question. Young and fragile as I was, I told him that 
my mind was prayerfully made up on that subject. I was 
the son who could best be spared from home, and therefore 
I must go. 

My brother Robert put his arms round me and wept 
aloud, as if he could not give me up to the terrible uncer- 
tainties of war. I would not attempt to tell you, Dr. Ver- 
ily, of the anguish and tears that were busy in our home, 
from the time of this decision, until my departure. Even 
my heroic father wept almost every time he looked at me. 
We will fold a gentle veil of silence over the parting hour, 
in which I mounted my good horse, and went with brother 
Robert to the gathering place of our volunteer cavaliers. 
I will tell you, tho’, how my sister Genevra put her arms 
round the neck of my horse, after I had mounted him, and 
laid her pale cheek close to his, and talked to him, as if he 
had been human. He was a white horse, yet his long rich 
mane was very black, and my sister’s white arms seemed 
to me the tendrils of her pure heart, when the flowing 
sleeves fell back, and left them bare, upon that jetty 


100 


Living and loving . 


raane. I called my horse Oaken, because he was strong 
and true. Strange as it may seem, he behaved in that 
parting moment as if he understood all that he heard. He 
bowed his stately head, and folded down his ears, while 
his lips trembled with evident emotion. My father stood 
before his face and wondered. Israel, said he, I almost 
believe that horse has a soul ; he looks as if his heart were 
breaking. Genevra uttered a short prayer to the Lord of 
all things, while my father unclasped her hands from the 
neck of the horse, and led her away, with his arm around 
her trembling frame. 

And now, dear Doctor, said Israel, I wish to expatiate, 
and say, no man can ever know how hard it was for me to 
leave that peaceful home of goodness and truth, to go 
afar, and battle in cold blood with the horrid realities of 
conflict and carnage. There was not a man on earth 
whose life I would not have delighted to help and bless. 
Then, as now, my heart would prompt me to bind up 
bleeding wounds, not to inflict them. Yet, go I must, 
and shoot bravely at my fellow-men, while they must 
shoot at me. Who can ever say how hideous a thing is 
war ! 

I told him, Annettie, that we believe the Lime has come 
when national wrongs should be righted in halls of legis- 
lation, where truth, and justice, and reason, can war with 
human error and oppression nobly and wisely, and where 
man can help his fellow-men to disdain the shedding of 
human blood. But, since men do, as yet, cling to savage 
ways, and since you did go to fight the Mexicans, my dear 
Israel, I must express my admiration of your father’s 
dignity and courage in making a sacrifice that cost him so 
much anguish. And then, I wish to speak of your sister 
Genevra. All that you have told me about her nature 
and her history seems divinely beautiful. You know I 


LIVING AND LOVING . 


101 


am almost a woman-worshipper, and now I am enslaved 
by her suffering tenderness when you left home to go into 
the battle field — that terrible arena of life and death. It 
seems like seeing and knowing her, to hear you talk of 
her, and yet, it is not quite possible for me to get an idea 
of her face. In imagination I can see her aspect, and 
hear her words, and almost adore the deep fountains of ' 
her heart ; but I cannot imagine her face — how the light 
fell from her eyes, and how the deep emotions played 
about her quiet mouth. 

A look of pensive pleasure came over the face of my 
dear Israel, and he said, Friend of my heart, I wish you 
could have seen my lovely sister. No words and no 
picture of art could give a just idea of her living face. 

It was fair, but not very fair. The features were chiseled 
and fine, but not perfectly so. If she was beautiful to the 
beholder, it was because her great heart and glorious mind 
irradiated every feature, until her face seemed really 
divine. I believe that no one ever saw her face, living or 
dead, without being made better than they would other- 
wise have been. Angels and benediction seemed to live 
perpetually about her brow and in her silken hair. Such 
hair as hers I have not ever seen or heard about. “ I 
cannot tell the secret of its beauty,” as it waved and 
curled about her classic head. Its color was not quite 
light, neither was it dark. There is no name for its shade 
or sheen. I have a sacred tress of it, cut for me by her 
own hand, and a ringlet which I cut for myself from her 
lifeless brow. I will show them to you, my dear Doctor, 
the very next time you visit me at my room. He did 
show it to me, Annettie, and very beautiful is that silken 
hair, in all its simple naturalness. He keeps the tress and 
the ringlet in a pearl casket, and it is a little monument 
of beauty, worthy of the living and of the dead. 


102 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


I have never seen a man whose nature seemeil so fraught 
with the spells of home and kindred as the nature of Israel 
Arlington. He told me that the. atmosphere of his pa- 
rental home seemed to hang round him like a mantle, 
through all the days and nights of his Mexican campaign. 
Ilis mother’s look, his sister’s prayers, his father’s stately 
integrity, were perpetually before him, and it was difficult 
to forgive the rude soldiers for talking of iniquity in his 
presence ; yet he did forgive them, and pity, and pray for 
them. Ilis Bible, he said, and his Redeemer were nearest 
and dearest of all things, and these constrained him to be 
long-suffering, and compassionate, and kind. He told me 
many incidents and emotions of his soldier life, one or two 
of which I will recount to you, Annettie, in his own 
words. 

Dear Doctor, he said, it will be easy for you to believe 
that the Father of mercies “covered my head in the 
battle,” when I tell you that the bullets passed through 
the sleeves of my coat, and did not touch me; and in the 
battle of Buena Vista the cap was shot away from my 
head, leaving me safe from all harm. And then, said he, 
with grateful emotion, even my horse seemed to be an 
object of divine compassion ; for he carried me through 
all the thick dangers, and when I came home, Oaken 
carried me to the gate, with a look of pride and pleasure, 
as if he understood much that we had endured, and 
rejoiced in the safe return to our native home. 

My dearest friends had not been prayerful in vain ; for 
I was safe in body and in soul, and wiser and stronger in 
all that relates to life, and death, and eternity, and God. 
And (), how unutterable was the joy of being again at 
home — at home because God loved me, and had saved me 
from all danger! When the greetings were over, and I had 
looked upon the earth and sky at home, the next impulse 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


103 


was, to gather every one in my home together in my 
mother’s room, and ask them to kneel down with me and 
pray that my heart might rightly rejoice in the goodness 
and power of the Lord, and praise Him acceptably for 
bringing me home in safety. I had often prayed with the 
suffering and dying soldiers, and it was easy for me to 
kneel before the Lord in any place, and offer praise and 
supplication with a contrite heart. Mentally, I had 
prayed, almost, in every waking hour since my father 
said that one of his sons must go to the Mexican war. 
And now, when it had all been realized, and I was 
restored to our home in safety — above all, when it was 
my privilege to find those whom I loved best on earth 
still living and well — there woke in my soul a sense of 
joy and thanksgiving which it never felt before. 

Mortal words can never tell the gratitude of my spirit 
then. In that noontide hour, Dr. Verily, J consecrated 
anew to God, my home, my kindred, my body, and my 
soul, and everything that was mine on earth. 

Then, Annettie, he told me that his father had never 
united himself to the church until after he had sent his 
sou to the war. Dear father, said he, how contrite he was 
for his procrastination and neglect of duty. He had 
always loved the Bible, and taught us that its precepts 
were divine, and indispensable to human safety, in time 
and in eternity ; but he never gave himself entirely to 
God until after he had sent me to the battle-field. He 
told me that never till then did he fully feel the folly of 
all earthly wisdom, and the deep, great need of God and 
His redeeming love. 

The day after my return from Mexico I asked my father 
to have family prayers and praises in our home once, at 
least, in every day. We both wept when he told me that 
he could not pray an audible prayer in the presence of 


104 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


any human being, but he would be very glad for me to 
do this for him. lie said it would give him inexpressible 
pleasure to have a family altar in his home, with perpetual 
incense upon it — incense' of prayer, and praise, and love, 
from all our needy souls. After that time, we read the 
Bible, and sang an hymn, and prayed together, in the 
evening of every day. 

My father often thanked me for erecting this altar of 
family devotion for him ; and tho’ my brother Robert was 
not then a professor of religion, he told me that this one 
work of mine had set me high above all other men ’of my 
age in his estimation. He said the fitting time in which I 
made the dedication of our home, and the deep feeling with 
which it was done, had made him a wiser and better man, 
and given him aspirations after holiness that were delightful 
to him. My dear brother Robert is singularly appreciative. 

I have told you this before. Soon after my return from 
the war, he told me that God, and His holy Word, and 
His redeeming love, had all seemed nearer and dearer to 
him ever since he saw me give myself to the church, and 
enter the visible fold of the great Good Shepherd of souls. 
Ever since then, said he, I have studied the Bible with 
more prayerful earnestness, and the deep delight I now 
feel in sacred and eternal things leads me to hope I am 
not far from the kingdom of heaven. Dear brother 
Israel, said he, you are to me an evangelist. You are to 
my father’s house a rich, excelling gift from the hand of 
God. To my mind you seem both good and great — yes, 
very good, and very great. Men who went with you to 
Mexico have told me that in war you were the bravest of 
the brave; and now, when you are so much in need of 
repose, you would not rest until you had caused us all to 
bow before the Lord, and offer Him adoration and thanks 
for His goodness and power. You are not only safe, said 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


105 


Robert, from the dangers of war, but you are more alive 
to the realities of time and eternity than any one else that 
I know. Dear brother, said he, it makes me feel that I 
have been cold, and faithless, and bewildered, all the days 
of my life. Surely the great enemy of all good has many 
subtile ways to hinder the souls of them that wish to attain 
unto holiness of heart and life! I can see some of his 
ways of working, here in our own good home. Only 
think, dear brother, that we never have heard our father 
or mother offer one prayer to the heavenly throne. It 
will always grieve me to think of it; and Satan is the real 
cause of all that keeps good people from works of love and 
words of praise to the Lord on high. I am thankful for 
all the sacred teachings given to us by our dear parents ; 
but it would have been easy for them to pray with us in 
our home, and to talk more about God, and heaven, and 
angels, and more about “ the wiles” and “ fiery darts” of 
the great adversary of all good. The Bible is full of 
teaching about the dangers that come from the power of 
Satan and his angels; yet no one talks about being afraid 
of them — no one seems to feel that they are as real as if 
we could behold them with our natural eyes. Yet they 
are even more real than anything we can see or touch, and 
much more dangerous. Great need, indeed, have we, of 
“ the whole armor of God, that we may be able to stand 
against” the powers of evil. Pray for me, my brother 
Lrael, that I may be essentially girded with the “divine 
panoply,” and fight, with fidelity and courage, “ the good 
fight of faith.” I wish, above ail things, to be “a so'dier 
of the Cross.” 

It was not long hefpre my brother Robert made a public 
profession of his faith apd love. It was glorious to see 
his calm face, when he walked up to the altar and gave 
his hand to the minister, and said he believed there was 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


10 (> 

no real happiness for a man on earth, who was out of the 
fold of Christ. Certainly, siid he, I believe him to be 
the S m of God — the Redeemer of the world. I love Him 
supremely, I believe Him implicitly, and wish above all 
things to be numbered among His faithful disciples. I 
cannot express to you, Dr. Verily, the pleasure it still 
gives me to remember the joy that beamed in the faces of 
old men, when my brother R >bert said these things; and 
the song and the throng seemed almost heavenly, while 
the elders of our church gathered round him to greet him 
as a new brother. 

It would give you great pleasure, dear doctor, to know 
as I know, the character ai'd life of my brother Robert. 
He is really greater than Cmsar, tho’ the world will never 
know his name, nor fully appreciate his unpretending ex- 
cellence and power. I say power, because such a man has 
immense power to elevate and help the community in 
which he dwells. 

He hail always been a dutiful and affectionate son, but 
now his filial tenderness grew perfect. As a brother, he 
had ever been devoted and true, but now his fraternal ways 
and words were almost divine. In the community around 
us he had been loved with peculiar affection, but now they 
seemed to feel he was more their owu than ever before. 
Even unbelievers seemed touched by the beauty of holi- 
ness which adorned his new life of faith and love. Some 
of them were amazed to see*that one so good as Robert 
Arlington had always been, should need to“ be born again,” 
and that it was possible for him “ to walk in newness of 
life.” Yet they said it was really true, that somehow he 
was nobler and lovelier than ever, aud they believed that 
he had grown in grace aud in a knowledge of God. 

You can imagine, dear doctor, how pleasant it was to 
see that my brother was really “a living epistle,” that 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


107 


could be “ known and read ” by the unbelieving as well as 
by the children of light. lie told me then that he felt a 
tender compassion for his malicious, only enemy ; that he 
prayed for him, and would gladly do him good at any time. 
This love to enemies, which the Divine Redeemer gave us 
as the highest test of Christian character, seems to me the 
loftiest and most difficult of human attainments. When 
we can feel that superhuman tenderness, which he declares 
to be essential to our acceptance with God, then we know 
that the spirit of God is “ helping our infirmities.” Human 
nature, unassisted by the divine spirit, could never love a 
bad, malicious enemy. When my brother Robert told me 
how he felt toward his unworthy foe, I told him that his 
triumph was complete, and that he was “ more than con- 
queror through Him that loved us and gave Himself for 
us.” And certainly he was p 'Culiarly triumphant, and 
courageous, and faithful. Perhaps there are as many tests 
and trials of real piety in common, everv-day life as can 
be met with any where in this existence. Especially is this 
true where families are oppressed with toils and cares. 
There are times when the body is too weary for the spirit 
to be glad, or realize the omnipresence of our Father in 
heaven. But no perplexity or weariness had power to 
overshadow the love and joy, that faith and hope had 
enkindled in the heart and mind of my brother Robert. 
I wish, dear doctor, you could have been in our home and 
heard him read the Bible sometimes, and then listen to 
the prayers he would send up like incense from his evan- 
gelized soul. 

It was almost heavenly to sit in our family band and 
worship as we did, before the Lord on high. Robert and 
I read and prayed in alternate evenings, and he seemed to 
enjoy my lowly services as much as I enjoyed his. Every 
member of our household seemed to enjoy the consecrated 


108 LIVING AND LOVING. 

hour of praise and prayer. I love to remember the seren- 
ity and peace which shone in the face of my dear father 
then. Sometimes he would come close to Robert and me 
after prayers and take our hands in his, and press them 
silently, while the tears would gather in his blue eyes and 
roll down his manly, faded face. That silent deed, and 
those rolling tears, were more eloquent to me than human 
words can ever be. They testified intensely of my father’s 
living faith in a living Redeemer — of his gratitude for the 
blessings of his lot in life — and for the joy he felt in wor- 
shiping the Lord in his home and with his beloved ones, 
until that home was to him really a sanctuary, aud safer 
and sweeter than it was before. Will you think me ab- 
surd, Dr. Verily, if I tell you there is, to me, a joy in 
believing that, in heaven my dear father will talk to me 
in a celestial dialect about those deep emotions of his 
heart, that were so unutterable with mortal words? You 
know, Annettie, that we believe implicitly in the Heavenly 
Recognition, and I told my dear Israel that it seemed only 
rational to me for him to believe that high communion and 
retrospect of earthly life, with those he had loved on earth, 
would certainly be realized among the things that God has 
prepared for them that love Him. Then we talked on and 
on about the joy, and peace, and love, in the world to 
come — the beautiful Hereafter; and my pensive friend 
said there was nothing so dear to him now as “ the perfect 
assurance of hope,” and nothing that he so much coveted 
as dying grace. He laid his pale hand in mine and said, 
Doctor, I have always prayed that God would keep me 
rational to the last moment of my life, and give me grace 
to die a triumphant death. His voice grew deeper aud 
softer, and he said, in tones that were sweeter than music, 
Do you ever pray for me ? Dear friend, said I, there is no 
day or night in which your name does not go up to the 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


i09 


throne of God, from my heart and from my lips. Surely 
you might have known this without being told, yet if you 
had a doubt about it, I am glad you asked me. You can- 
not imagine, Annettie, how that plaintive question stirred 
the fountains of my heart. I felt like taking him in my 
arms and holding him there with fervent supplication to 
God, through all the days and nights he might linger on 
earth. I realized, as never before, that he was hastening 
to the tomb, and to the presence of God, and the anguish 
of my heart was unutterable. I pressed the pale, cold 
hand he had laid in mine, and bowed my head upon his 
shoulder, and wept like a woman. 

There has ever been so much vitality and completeness 
in all he said and did, that it had been impossible for me 
to realize that he was a dying man. That evening there 
was something in his words and aspect that impressed me 
with peculiar power, and I felt that the friend, whose life 
seemed dear to me as my own, would die, before the roses of 
summer could come and bloom again. What ought I to say 
to him at such an hour ? It was impossible to be silent, and 
words of sorrow, and truth, and tenderness, were the only 
words worthy of him, or of me. I told him he did not 
yet apprehend how much he had become a part of my 
being, and how essential he is to my happiness ; that a 
thought of his dying fills me with anguish, and a sense of 
desolation, such as men only feel for the nearest and dear- 
est of kindred, and that, in a high sense, he is really my 
brother. In heart, and mind, and soul, we are certainly 
akin to each other. 

A look of light and joy irradiated his calm face, and he 
said, God gave you to me in His mercy, to comfort and 
help me, in these, my dying days. Certainly the Lord is 
good, O, very good to me 1 

Then he asked me to go home with him, Annettie, and 


110 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


spend the night. So I wrote a note of direction on the 
slate at my office door, and left ray post of duty, to spend 
the night with my dear Israel. It would be difficult to 
refuse any thing he could ask of me, especially when I 
realize that his earthly life will soon be ended, and all his 
sweetness gone from me. 

And now, is not this a long letter about living and lov- 
ing ? It has been written in parts of three evenings. Since 
its date, three days ago, I have paid fifty professional vis- 
its, and stood beside the dying bed of four immortal be- 
ings, while the soul of each one passed solemnly away, to 
go into the presence of God. Only yesterday, Annettie, I 
held the dying hand of a prosperous worldling, and saw 
his look of remorse and woe, when he cried aloud in his 
anguish, and said, “ What shall it profit a man, if he gain 
the whole world and lose his own soul !” In the afternoon 
of that same day, it was my privilege to look upon the serene 
faceof a dying Christian, and hear him say, How sweet it 
is to be ready for the dying time. What would I do to-day 
without the love of God ? It is a solemn thing to die — it 
is so to me — but I feel safe and satisfied, he said, in the 
arms of Redeeming Love. He talked beautifully to his 
family, and friends, and said, if he could speak to all the 
world, he would persuade them to seek the favor of the 
Lord, and be ready for the uncertain time to die. 

The other two I have spoken of as dying, Annettie, 
were guileless little children, and quite as much akin to 
angels as to men. Perhaps the g’addest anthem they will 
sing through all eternity, will be in praise of the mercy 
that took them so early from a sin-bewildered world like 
this. Among death-beds, I can but think, dear sister, 
how good it is to have a faith and love like yours, and 
like Robert Arlington’s, and like the perfect faith of my 
friend Israel. 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


Ill 


Bat it is time to say good-night to you. I will pray for 
all men everywhere to-night, Annettie, and you will pray 
for me, I know, because I am always 

Your own brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XVI. 

Dear Annettie — In my last letter I told yon how Israel 
took me home with him to spend the night, but I did not 
tell you how much pleasure it gave me. This letter shall 
give you some idea of the way he entertained and enjoyed 
me. You ought to see his room, Annettie. It is a charm- 
ing apartment, ornamented by himself with almost a thou- 
sand things. Elegant little groupings on the wall abound. 
Some of them artistic, some of them purely rustic. In a 
south window grows his little garden, composed of a rose 
geranium, an ivy, a white rose, an amaranth and a pot of 
migneonette. His taste is very original, and to me, very 
charming. He has a little crystal casket filled with ten- 
drils gathered from a grapevine that covered a grand old 
tree in his father’s yard. With that little casket in my 
hand, as a bond and a token of the beautiful and the past, 
we spent the evening talking of his old sweet home and of 
his brother Robert. 

Dear doctor, said Israel, there is another chapter you 
must hear about Robert, because it is so sweet to see you 
appreciate his unpretending manliness. I told him it 
would give me pleasure to hear it all, and that he must 
be sure to tell me if Robert’s dignity and wisdom deserted 
him when the time came to choose himself a wife. 

At this my pale friend smiled and then began his narra- 
tion. You remember, said he, how rational Robert was 
in his religion; he was quite as rational in all his human 


112 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


affections. He talked to me very frankly about his inten- 
tion to be married and go to the wide west and make him- 
self a home, a paradise, I hope, said he, for I do believe 
it is easy for a man to build up an Eden lovelier than that 
in which Adam lived, if he will only take God for his best 
friend and the Bible for his guide. But almost every 
thing good in life depends on the choosing of a man’s wile. 
Adam lost himself and a rich world by the folly of his 
wife; and so it is with many a man even now, tho’ the 
world is full of light and truth. 

Then my brother R)bert drew very near to me and said, 
in tones an octave lower and softer than his usual voice, 
let me tell you that it seems to me I know a person with 
the heart, and mind, and principles that are essential to 
the most excellent womanhood. You have never met her. 
But you have heard me speak of Miss Nonie Barns and 
her father’s interesting family. Mr. Barns has lived all 
his married life in his beautiful rural home and in a culti- 
vated community. It is in his woodland that the tall pop- 
lars, the tulip trees, are growing in such rare perfection, 
and the crab apple thicket of whose beauty and fragrance 
you have often heard. I can believe, said Robert, that 
the atmosphere of Eden was not more aromatic than the 
waves of air that float about this woodland when those 
trees are unfolding their millions of rosy little flowers. 

Well, said I,’ you have often spoken to me about that 
woodland in the spring-time, but you never did tell me 
much about Mis3 Nonie Barns, the fairy of that land, I 
suppose. No, said Robert, she is nothing like a fairy. She 
is one of the most real and practical of mortals. She is 
as domestic and as much devoted to her home as our own 
Genevra, but she is more vigorous and rosy than our sweet 
sister. I have known Miss Barns for six years, and liked 
her well enough to visit her once or twice a year with 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


113 


others who were going to that pleasant neighborhood — 
was introduced to her at her own house, and the first thing 
she ever said to me was strikingly dignified for a person of 
eighteen. It was about the minister who preached for us 
that day. Mr. Arlington, said she, some persons call him 
uninteresting because his education is plain, but to me he 
is singularly apostolic. He is so warm, so tender, and so 
abounding with Bible truth and power. Do you see, 
brother Israel, how I remember the first thing she ever 
said to me ! and yet it never seemed so interesting to me 
as it does now, just six years after it was spoken. It must 
be that the past is more to us than we are apt to think. 

Many things said by Miss Barns recur to my memory 
now, with an interest and a charm which they did not 
have for me when they were spoken. Everything, too, 
that others tell me about her interests me now as it never 
did before. I almost believe she is the person for me to 
love, and to win, if I can. Yes, if I can ! That is a 
problem, indeed ! Perhaps you will call me absurd, when 
I tell you that the first thing which set me to thinking 
about her with peculiar interest was her late rejection of 
Randolph Mainard, the cleverest man of his age that we 
have ever seen. He told me about it last week, and said 
it consoled him to think that Miss Nonie Barns is worthy 
of the noblest heart and hand in this or any other 
dominion. Seven other boys of my acquaintance, said he, 
were rejected before my fate came; and yet, she is no 
coquette. Not one of us would think of addressing her a 
second time, so gently decisive is her manner of rejecting 
hearts and hands. Now, my dear Israel, said Robert, is 
not that a strange sort of information to wake up a man’s 
best interest in a lady ? Yet so it was, and so it is, tho’ I 
have not seen Miss Barns for months ; and the last time I 
did see her, she said, with a look of sweet contentment, 
8 


114 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


that in one year more she would be twenty-five years old, 
and then the world could have the pleasure of calling her 
an old maid. I like to remember her womanly aspect and 
dignified simplicity, while she said this, and kept on 
hemming a handkerchief for her little brother. Certainly 
it would be absurd to call such a person an old maid. 
The roses, in their prime, look just as old as she did then. 

But I was not in love with Miss Barns at that time. 
Her peculiar power over me began last week, while Ran- 
dolph Mainard spoke of her nature, and her refusal of his 
deep love and his most worthy hand. She has always 
seemed pretty to me, but mere beauty of face and form 
has no power over my heart. 

Well, dear brother, said I, when are you going to visit 
her again, and how long are you going to carry on a siege 
for her heart? It would be very glorious and good if, 
after all her negatives, she should say yes, to my brother, 
and so, elect Robert Arlington for her guardian, “ so long 
as you both shall live.” O, said he, my mind is not yet 
made up about addressing her, certainly not, tho’ I do ad- 
mire her more than any lady I ever met, except my cousin 
Carlottie Bell. I could not help loving her, tho’ it is for- 
bidden in our family for cousius to marry, and tho’ she 
often told me I ought to have more dignity and wisdom 
than to think of loving my cousin, with any other than 
brotherly affection. Carlottie will always be a wise and 
noble being, said Robert, and with her advice it did not 
take me long to overcome my first love. It was as a beau- 
tiful melody, floating over me for a day, and then depart- 
ing on the viewless air. It did me some good, too, by 
leading me to know the very womanly dignity of my cou- 
sin Carlottie. It is a great blessing to be well acquainted 
with excelling human character. 

Only a few days after that conversation with Robert, he 


LIVING AND LOVING . 


115 


said to me, if you will go with me, brother Israel, to see 
Miss Nonie Barns, next week, you will confer a favor, 
and have for it a reward, for you will certainly enjoy such 
a visit. You have often called me an appreciative man, 
and so I am, but my perceptive powers are not so fine as 
yours. Go with me, and study the latent tones, that may 
be, like a rich mine, deep down in the nature of Miss 
Nonie. 

You see I am in earnest about being better acquainted 
with her than I am now. You will be charmed with her 
father and mother, for they are almost faultless. 

Mrs. B. is the daughter of a Maryland quaker, who 
came and made himself a home in Mr. Baruses’ locality, 
when his only daughter, Miss Katurah Belt, was young, 
and radiant, and very fair. Randolph Mainard told me 
that his mother has known her intimately ever since she 
came from Maryland, and that she is, in her estimation, 
faultless. Now and then, said Randolph, there is a person 
on earth, who, to human eyes, seems even faultless. Then 
he continued to expatiate on Mrs. Barns, and said, she has 
never been known to utter an impatient word, or speak 
unkindly to, or about, any human being — never has been 
known to repeat a word spoken by others, that could be 
injurious to any person — never has complained of any 
thing that afflicted or oppressed her, tho’ she has always 
been a delicate, fragile person. For years after her mar- 
riage she lived without a servant, except one little girl, to 
nurse her children, and bring her wood and water. All 
this, said Randolph, my mother knows to be true, for she 
lived very near to Mr. Barns for years. One of the 
remarkable things about Mrs. Barns, is, that, even in those 
toilsome days, no one ever saw her look untidy, or her 
house in the least disorder. Her children were always 
clean, and her own face was habitually lighted with smiles. 


116 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


My mother has told me that Mrs. Barns was always the 
most cheerful person she ever knew, and one of the wit- 
tiest. Perhaps she is also one of the wisest, said Ran- 
dolph, for no one in our acquaintance is so entirely devoted 
to her children as Mrs. Barns. She is constantly teaching 
them some good thing. In winter time, when children in 
the country cannot go to Sabbath school, she has a little 
Sabbath school of her own at home. She says that wise 
builders look well to their foundations, and mothers ought 
to profit by their example. All fine human character is a 
building, and childhood is the time for laying foundations 
that will stand in eternity. 

Those are some of the uncommon things that Mrs. Barns 
has said to my mother, said Randolph Mainard, in his 
honest, earnest admiration of the Barnses. 

My brother Robert was evidently pleased with all that 
Randolph had ever told him about this interesting family, 
and so was I. Indeed, my mind gave a decided verdict in 
favor of Miss Nonie, for I told Robert that goodness, and 
justice, and tenderness, and truth, must be her inevitable 
dowery, and it would be safe to covet the companionship 
of a person who had grown up in such an atmosphere as 
that of her home. Robert looked thoughtful, and then 
said, I believe as you do about Miss Barns, yet you must 
go with me to see her. Long ago I resolved never to 
address a lady until you and Genevra both had seen her 
in her own home. It cannot be wrong to keep such a reso- 
lution. Miss Barns has often invited me to bring my sis- 
ter to see her, and I promised to do so, long before I felt 
this peculiar interest in knowing her and pleasing her. It 
has always seemed to me, that she ought to know and love 
my sister Genevra. It is strange they have never met, 
when their native homes are only twenty miles apart. 

In a few days after Robert said all this I really did go 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


117 


with him to visit Miss Barns, and found her to be quite as 
lovely as my faith and fancy had painted her — gentle, 
intelligent, polished, and religious, with much of the narye- 
less grace that poets talk about, and which no one can 
define — a sort of harmouy that floats out from a beautiful 
spirit within. 

But Mr. and Mrs. Barns were even more interesting than 
Miss Nonie. Hospitality so gentle and benign I had never 
seen away from my father’s house. Mrs. B. reminded me 
of a dove in her aspect and in the soft, sweet tones of her 
voice. Her spirit seemed angelic, and her home seemed 
to be pervaded by her peculiar genius and nature. So 
much order, without constraint or contraction, I have sel- 
dom seen, and the harmony of affliction seemed to embalm 
the entire atmosphere of her house. Love to God and 
love to man seemed to be the law of her spirit and her 
life ; and the love she cast on others was returned and 
hanging round her like a rich, imperishable halo. Mr. 
Barns had an invalid maiden sister living with him, and 
she told me that her sister Katurah was the sweetest, 
dearest mortal that she had ever known. Mr. Arlington, 
said she, ray brother is the most fortunate of men. Moun- 
tains of gold and millions of diamonds could not make 
him so rich as he now is in possessing this one living gem. 
In all things, temporal and divine, she helps him, and it 
seems to me no real evil can come where she is. Even 
sickness and sorrow she can make beautiful, so balmy are 
all her words and ways. My brother was always good 
and kind, but it seems to me his heart has been growing 
deeper and his mind higher and more enlightened ever 
since the day he was married to Katurah Belt. Here 
I-rael paused for a moment, and then he said, this simple, 
earnest eulogy seemed to rivet itself in my memory, and I 
kuow you will appreciate it, my dear doctor — you who make 


118 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


living and loving the great study of your life. Now, An- 
nettie, you know that such things seem heavenly to me, 
and I told him it was divine, that, and all he had narrated 
to* me about the Barnses. I wish, said he, you could have 
been with them and us the very time of which I am telling 
you now. Mrs. Barns’ father and mother were living theii 
and with their son, a mile from Mr. Barns. They spent 
the day with Mrs. B. when we were there. This, to me, 
was another charm. They were so lovely in their old age. 
Their locks of snow seemed, indeed, beautiful “ crowns of 
glory.” Old Mr. Belt was very intelligent and loved to 
talk about Maryland and the days gone by. He said that 
Robert Fulton often visited his father’s house, and he had 
heard him talk about the power of steam while he was 
planning its application to machinery. Mr. and Mrs. Belt 
were sweet old quakers, and it was like listening to a 
rare song to hear them say “ thee,” and “thou,” and “ thine f 
Mrs. Barns said “thee ’’and “ thou ” when speaking to 
them, but not at any other time. That, too, seemed sweet 
to me. It was so filial and tender thus to keep for them 
the dialect of her childhood. 

But, my dear doctor, said Israel, we cannot try to talk 
of all that was beautiful in that visit of a day. In the 
evening we left the charming little world at Bloomfield, 
the home of the Barnses, and spent that night with Ran- 
dolph Mainard. He had been with me in Mexico, and 
brother Robert had been attached to him for several years, 
so it was not possible for us to go near him without trying 
to see him. When I told him we had been to see Miss 
Barns he seemed to have a quick, prophetic thought about 
Robert, and taking him playfully by the hand, he said, 
Win her if you can — and I almost believe you can. She 
is worthy of a king and a kingdom. Miss Nonie B irns 
would adorn a palace and console a realm. Then he turned 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


119 


his noble face to me, and said, I must tell you, Israel, she 
has rejected me, tho’ I have loved her from ray boyhood. 
It goes very hard with me, too, but a man who has lived 
through our battle of Buena Vista ought not to despair if 
no lady on earth should ever bless him with her love. I 
do believe, continued he, that it is possible for a man to 
be good aud great through all tribulation. Married or 
unmarried, life is one great battle, and with the Bible in 
my heart and in my hand, I hope to come off “more than 
conqueror through Him that loved me and gave Him«elf 
for me.” Nevertheless, the Wise Creator of the universe 
has said, “ It is not good for man to be alone ; ” and as all 
His plans are perfect, I wish to fight the battle of life with 
some one to help me — one who is gentle, and tender, and 
guileless, and wise, and adorned with womanly dignity, 
and Christian grace. So you see, my dear friends, if I 
live and die a bachelor'it will not be by my own intention. 
All this you may know and testify for me, said Randolph 
Mainard, in his own inimitable way and words. 

As we journeyed home the next day, Robert told me 
that he had spoken to Miss Barns about Norah’s humilia- 
ting marriage, and at another time had told her he ex- 
pected to be tolerably poor as long as he lived on earth. 
These, he said, were two things he wished her to know, 
before he addressed her. He did address her, my dear 
Doctor, after Genevra had seen her, and said she could 
never doubt the disposition of a person so devout and 
high-minded as Miss Nonie Barnes. In one of the last 
days of summer, a cosy, rainy day, brother Robert gath- 
ered us all iuto mother’s room, and told us he had some- 
thing to say that would interest every one who loved him. 
On Wednesday, the twenty-seventh of September, said he, 
I shall be married to Miss Nonie Barns, unless the Infinite 
Father, in His wisdom, should prevent it by some frown 


120 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


of His providence. It is ray earnest wish that there shall 
be no tone of festivity in our home, when I come into it 
with a bride. Only two summers have passed since the 
death of our dear Paul, and the solemnity of his departure 
is still in my heart and in our home. I am happy, but it 
would pain me to see a throng of glad faces here, in the 
home where he died— here, where his place is a perpetual 
vacancy. And besides all that, said Robert, the lady of 
my love has no taste for assemblies, at a time like that 
which we are contemplating. She says that bridal days 
are days in which to be thoughtful and prayerful, since 
they are a prelude to great transitions. She weeps when- 
ever we talk of the future ; for beautiful as it is to love 
and be loved with confidence like ours — confidence in each 
other, and perfect confidence in God — still it is terrible to 
part from all we ever loved before, and go away fur into a 
land of strangers. This we expect to realize ; for it has 
always been my intention to go westward with the sublime 
march of empire, if the time should ever come when it 
might suit for me to leave my father’s home, and make a 
Paradise of my own. 

It almost unmans me to think of leaving you all ; but it 
must be right for me to go where the wide land is waiting 
for men to come and adorn it with homes, and schools, 
and temples of praise and prayer. Father, he said, I am 
twenty-seven years old, and feel that I am fit to stand 
alone, with God to help me, so well have you educ ited 
ray human nature. You can spare me, I am sure, now 
that Mark and Alfred can plough, and brother Israel is 
here, to give you all the aid and comfort you can wish for 
in a manly son. 

I hope, dear father and mother, you will approve of my 
going where land is at a moderate price. It will be 
impossible for me to go if you object to it. Our dear 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


121 


father looked sad, and said, Robert, my boy, you are for- 
tunate if you have won the heart of Miss Nonie Barns. I 
know, without seeing her, that she is lovely like the angels. 
When you are married, it will be wise for you to make a 
home in the beautiful West. We will grieve to see you 
go, he said; but if you and Nonie will spend the coming 
winter with us, we will try to let you go and build that 
paradise you talk about making for yourself. The God of 
all good will bless you, I do believe, and you will glorify 
Him, wherever you may dwell, in time or in eternity. 
These thoughts shall sustain us now, and when you are 
gone. My dear mother was perfectly silent, and her calm 
eyes dilated with solemn expression, as if her soul had 
been supplicating for strength and wisdom from on high. 
She shed no tears — uttered no sighs. When my father 
was done speaking, she left her chair, and placed herself 
quietly in the arms of Robert. My child, she said, fold 
me to your heart, as I enfolded you a thousand times in* 
your helpless infancy. Hold me there a little time, it will 
soothe me to remember it; and besides, when I am sleeping 
in the grave, and you are old and gray, you will love to 
remember this evening, and feel again the beating of your 
mother’s heart. Then she said, You have always been a 
good child, Robert, and God is constantly rewarding you. 

I see it in the past, and now, when you marry Miss Nonie 
Biros. I have as much faith in her as if I had seen her 
for myself. Randolph Mainard is a person that can be 
implicitly believed, and all he has told us about her mind, 
and heart, and life, is charming. Besides all that, her 
mother is almost famous for goodness and practical wisdom. 

I have heard of Mr. Jefferson Barns and his wonderful 
wife, ever since you were a little boy, but never have seen 
them. They have been busy in their little world, and I 
have been busy in mine. It seems beautiful to me that 


122 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


the people I have admired so long, should all that time 
have been training a wife for my son — polishing a jewel 
for him, that is more to be valued than all the rich dia- 
dems of earth. Dear mother, said Robert, it is more than 
pleasant to hear the tender approbation expressed by you 
and by my father. If it were not for the thought of 
leaving you all, I should be overwhelmed with happiness. 

The 27th of September came; and my brother Robert 
led Miss Nonie Barns to the altar, with the most serene 
content upon his face that bridegroom ever wore. I do 
believe he felt sure that God had given him the richest of 
all earthly gifts, and blessed him for time and for eternity. 
And so may a man ever be blest, who chooses a wife 
rationally and prayerfully. So said my dear Israel, and 
so we believe, Annettie. 

Then he went on to say, I wish you had been at that 
\yedding, my dear Doctor. It was so beautiful and so 
happy. Nonie had requested to have all her elderly 
friends there, because they would kiss her bridal lips with 
benedictions and silent prayers. And so they did, I am 
sure. Sweet young faces, and snowy robes, and many 
flowers, were there — and lovely indeed was the bride, as 
she stood in her ethereal veil, and wreath of orange blos- 
soms — but the lamp light of that evening shone on nothing 
so divine to me as the looks of tenderness that beamed in 
eyes of age, below the locks of gray, and under thoughtful 
brows. 

The next morning we carried the bride away to the 
home of her unknown father and mother. “ Thy people 
shall be my people,” she said to Robert, as she left the 
threshold of her father’s house, and wiped the tears from 
her sweet brown eyes. I can never forget how my brother 
Robert looked just then, when he took her hand in his, 
and led her silently to the gateway, while tears rolled 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


123 


down his calm and manly face. It was a beautiful morn- 
ing when thus we left Mr. Barns’s home, and journeyed to 
Mapleton with our new treasure. Nome’s brother, and 
Randolph Mainard and his sister, were the only friends 
we took with us, to help Genevra and me escort the 
bridegroom and the bride. The beautiful September was 
all around and above us ; and when we reached our home, 
it looked like a dream of heaven, bathed, as it was, in the 
soft, sweet light of the young autumn. It seemed as it 
the dying smile of summer had lingered there, to greet 
and bless the gentle new child of my father’s house, in this 
day of her adoption. Such tender light and beauty cm 
come only in September, just when the morning glories 
live on until sunset. 

When that day was ending — hours after my father and 
mother had folded Nonie to their hearts — I stood alone at 
the threshold where she had entered our home, and making 
a shrine of the white morning-glories that clustered there, 
I prayed that, like them, the beauty of my brother Rob- 
ert’s married life might live on with its morning perfection 
till the sunset of his earthly existence. How beautifully 
the flowers embalmed our home that day, and for many 
days! Words can give no idea of the graceful clusters 
around and about us, for my mother had adorned every 
room with flowers, as if for a festival. It may be folly to 
cling to the beautiful when it is past and gone, but I 
love the memory of that day with a religious gratitude 
for the gift of memory, and those flowers are living yet in 
the retrospect. 

And now, my dear Doctor, said Israel, the evening is 
gone, but my chapter about Robert is not ended. You 
shall have the remainder another time. An invalid, you 
have said, should sleep when he is weary, and never keep 
late hours. 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


:.24 

I saw that he was weary, and encouraged him to retire, 
tho’ it is still my custom to wake and work until midnight. 
I told him, Annettie, how much perfection there is in the 
nature and history of his brother Robert; and then we 
read our evening lesson, and sang our evening anthem, and 
knelt close beside each other, while my incomparable Israel 
offered up to the Lord on high the most devout thanks- 
giving and adoration, and then asked for mercies and 
blessings, with the simplicity of a little child. Thus 
ended that sweet evening with my fading, pensive friend. 
It was pleasant to be near him while he slept, and think 
of his animated, earnest narrations. He seems always to 
live the past over again, when he talks of it, and always 
takes my heart and mind along with him. I never have 
listened to a person who could so enchain, and lead me 
along with his own feelings. O, it is a great sorrow to 
think that be is passing away ! 

Pray for me, dear sister, and ask that this sorrow may 
refine my soul, and make me more fit to live and more 
ready to die, for Jesus’ sake. And now, good-night, 
good-night ! Affectionately, 

Your brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XVII. 

Dear Annettie— I must tell you how faithfully Israel 
resumed his narration the first time we had a quiet hour 
together. It would be impossible, said he, to tell you, 
doctor, how much sweetness and blessedness we realized in 
our home during the winter in which Robert and Nonie 
were with us. The thought of their intended departure 
seemed to hallow them to our hearts, and besides, they 
were both singularly replete, with all that charms in a 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


125 


family band like ours — talking, working, reading, loving, 
and religious. 

Every thing in our home seemed to interest Nonie as if 
she had lived there all her life. Such a feeling of adop- 
tion and love as she manifested would make any man feel 
safe and happy in the outset of his life-voyage. She liked 
to be busy as a bee, and knew how to do every thing that 
makes home sweet, and fills it with consolation and comfort 
for the weary ones. She was as tenderly thoughtful and 
diligent as my sister Genevra. My father loved for her to 
read and sing for him. Every way she was a joy and “ a 
beam of light” to all our household band. I shall ever 
love to remember how perfect the family picture was when 
Nonie sat with Robert at our mother’s side helping her to 
darn. 

Good Mrs. Barns was very kind when she spared them 
to us the most of that winter. She said it was her wish 
that Nonie should know and love the family of her hus- 
band, and that they should be well acquainted with Nonie. 
Not many mothers would be so wise or so unselfish. 

When the winter ended and spring began to smile, we 
gave them many comfortable things for housekeeping, and 
let them go, as they had intended, to live “nearer to the 
setting sun.” And O, said my dear Israel, I could not 
paint with words, for any one, that time of parting ; it was 
so sacred and so sad ! With our dear Robert it lasted 
several days. I think he bade express and affectionate 
farewell to every thing, animate and inanimate, in the 
bounds of his father’s domain — every field, and meadow, 
and orchard, and woodland — every tree and shrub — all 
— every thing — the morning and the evening, and the sky 
that bent above the home that had been his world — the 
moral garden where his soul had grown in grace, and 
knowledge, and wisdom — the only home he had ever 


126 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


known on earth. Two days before liis departure he began 
to say parting words to us. Poets might search the world 
and not find again such words of manly thought and affec- 
tion as were spoken in those two days by my brother, 
Robert. He melted us with tenderness, he strengthened 
us by talking of God and His wisdom, His saving love 
and His infinitude. If we but dwell in Him we shall not 
be far apart, said he, tho’ space divide us, and tho’ the 
grave cover us until the resurrection. 

His prayers in our family devotions at that time were 
wonderful ; so like a little child, and yet so dignified with 
Bible truth, and power, and wisdom. After prayers, in 
the last evening they would be with us, Robert drew 
himself and Nonie close beside our father and mother, and 
said, dearly beloved, you can all think of us at this time 
in the evenings, when we are gone, and remember that 
we, too, are worshipping our Father in Heaven, and ask- 
ing for good and perfect gifts, for Jesus’ sake. This hour 
of eight o’clock in the evening, shall be our time for even- 
ing supplication and praises. We will always pray for 
the dear ones in this home, and you will all remember us, 
when you entreat for mercies from the Infinite Father. 
Then he said, father, dear father, my earthly father, and 
mother, my only mother, I must now thank you both 
again for all your faithfulness and goodness to me. Not 
many parents have been so wise and tender as you have 
been. Thank you for keeping me here with you, until my 
heart and mind were really educated. Such a home, 
with its duties and influences, is the most benign school in 
which a person can ever graduate. I shudder to think I 
might have been a benighted worldling, if I had left home 
at the age of twenty-one, as the majority of young men do. 
O, my father ! he said, how glad I am that you could not 
spare me from home, when lucrative places were offered to 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


127 


me elsewhere — that you taught me to love the path of 
duty, and the gentle joys of home. And, father, I hope 
you will never regret that we go without thousands of dol. 
lars to help us. The wealth that I prize above any other 
that earthly parents can give, is in ray heart, and mind, 
and soul, and in these strong, brave hands. Thank you 
again for teaching me to work. I would rather be a toil- 
ing farmer than a king. I have no taste for splendor, 
neither has Nonie, my priceless Nonie. We both prefer 
simple elegance to any other style of living, and the inde- 
pendence that can be comfortable and hospitable by earn- 
est endeavor, is the sort of riches we wish to enjoy. “ Give 
me neither poverty nor riches,” is the wise prayer of 
Agur, in the words of Solomon, and it is also our prayer. 

Our home shall be a garden of beauty like yours, and 
our house a sanctuary, warm and bright, with love to God 
and love to man. I will build a sweet, white house, of 
logs, and lime, and mortar, and have plenty of rooms, like 
those you added to the dear old walnut house. I want to 
live with Nonie, for a time, in that sort of a home. The 
light of morning has a peculiar charm for me, when it 
comes in through lowly little windows and white curtains, 
just as it did when I was a boy, and slept and waked in 
the log room close to yours, dear mother. Father built it 
especially for Paul and me, and O, how sweet it was! al- 
ways so clean, and cosy, and comfortable. I love to re- 
member how you called us in the mornings with kind, 
parental tones, and how it pleased you for me to be up be- 
fore you called me. It always grived me, tho’, to waken 
Paul very early. I am afraid he did not sleep quite 
enough sometimes. Dear, departed brother Paul ! How 
thankful I am that when we go away the memory of his 
nature and his life will go with *me, and live on in my 
heart as it now does. Just here, my dear Doctor, said 


128 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


Israel, I wish you to notice the tenderness of my brother 
Robert. There was something more than sweet to me in 
his thus remembering Paul that evening, when he was 
saying special words of love and parting to every one in 
our family. All that he said that evening was worthy the 
pen of recording angels, I am sure. I can only tell you a 
small part of it, and can give you no idea of his tones and 
manner. In the retrospect, I can see him vividly, when 
he took Genevra’s hand in both of his, and said, gentle, 
own sister, words cannot tell my love for you, and the 
gratitude I feel for all your faithfulness to me. Perhaps 
I have not always spoken words of encouragement and ap- 
probation when I ought, yet I tell you now, we are all in- 
debted to you for innumerable blessings, blessings that 
gold could never buy, and many of which time can never 
take away. Some of them belong to our immortality, and 
will live on unto perfection in a better world than this. 
I have always been thankful for the blessing of such a sis- 
ter, and while I live on earth, I beg you to remember that 
my home, my heart, and my strong hand, are partly 
yours by the divine right of brotherhood. By Notiie and 
by me you will be ever associated in thought with all 
things good, and true, and beautiful, and it is not a vain 
thing, so to live, in the hearts and minds of absent kin- 
dred. 

Israel paused a moment, and then he said sadly, poor 
Genevra. She talked sweetly to Robert and Notiie, in re- 
ply to all they said that evening; indeed, she was calm 
and strong until they were gone the next day, and then 
she grieved almost as if Robert had died. For weeks we 
could hear her from any part of the house at night, wail- 
ing in her sleep just as she did after Paul died. 

It was long before any of us could feel as we did before 
we parted from Robert and Nonie, tho’ there were many 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


129 


things to console us. Their nature, their education, their 
trust in God, and their perfect union of heart and mind, 
all combined to assure us of their happiness and safety, 
in time and in eternity. Certainly we were glad of those 
mercies, and grateful to the Giver of such perfect gifts 
for our dear Robert. Yet, he was gone — gone, to be never 
again our own as he had been. All his young life was in 
the past; and we had nothing of him to keep for our own, 
save memories and hopes. All our memories of him were 
gentle and sweet — all our hopes of him were high as the 
loftiest manhood, and reaching onward to the celestial 
home of the redeemed, where there is never any need of 
partings. But in spite of all our faith and hope, the 
thought that he was gone filled me with anguish. I 
could not feel anything else for weeks. The brother I 
had loved and lived with all my life was gone ; and life 
had now, to me. another shadow and another cross. He 
taught me to walk, and talk, and read, while he played 
with me — so my mother told me ; and I can remember 
that, in my early childhood, he was very careful about 
my morals and manners, tho’ he was only six years my 
senior. When he was gone, he seemed to have been a 
part of me, and of everything in our parental home. I 
have never given him up, Dr. Yerilv, said Israel. I love 
to think of my brother Robert now, and often feel the 
pleasure given by his voice and smile, as well as the 
anguish of his farewell. 

As the weeks and months glided on, our home grew 
cheerful again. We could talk of Robert and Nonie with 
smiling faces. Genevra could sing and be joyous, some- 
times, and Mark and Alfred grew playful as of old. It 
was a real blessing to hear them laugh, and talk, and 
sing. Sadness in the face of childhood is one of the 
things very difficult for me to endure. So, when Mark 
9 


130 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


and Alfred were bright and happy, I was happy, too. 
I have not told you much about my little brothers, Dr. 
Verily, but they were very important persons in our family 
joys, and cares, and sorrows. Alfred had grown to be a 
noble boy of twelve years old, when Robert left us; but 
he was still my little brother, and twined himself about 
me just as he did when he watched for me to come in 
from the fields, at noon or in the evenings. He and Mark 
worked and learned like little men, at the time of which I 
am telling you ; and so successful was our sowing and 
reaping, that we felt almost prosperous. But alas! how 
little we know about the morrow. Certainly it is well, 
that “ man hath not the prophet’s eye,” to see the woes 
that may be near him. 

In September, while we were feeling hopeful and grate- 
ful, my dear father grew sick, and in a few weeks he 
died. This, my dear Doctor, was terrible beyond the 
power of words to tell. I saw my father die — saw his 
gentle eyfs closed for the long repose of the tomb — saw 
his good hands folded over the deep heart that had loved 
me all the days of my life — 3aw the coffin-lid placed to 
encase from our sight the form and the benignant face of 
my only earthly father. Then, I saw the pall-bearers 
carry him out of our home, and bury him close beside his 
own mother, in the deep, dark, narrow house of decay. I 
heard my mother’s cry of anguish, and my sister’s wail of 
woe; but I could not look at them, nor speak, nor weep ; 
I was paralyzed and stunned. I held my mother up with 
one arm and Genevra with the other, but it was all 
mechanical. When the earth was heaped above my 
buried father, and the people were all gone, we stood 
there still, like petrified statues — Mark and Alfred, and 
mother and Genevra, and I. The silent impulse of my 
heart was, to kneel lowly down before the Lord and stay 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


131 


there, but I was rational enough to ask my mother to go 
home and let us comfort her. We did go back into my 
father's house, to realize intensely that it had certainly 
become the home of the widow and the fatherless. How 
desolate, how still, how strange it was ! It seemed as if a 
terrible convulsion had passed over the universe, and me, 
and all I prized in this existence. I was bewildered. I 
could not think of anything but my mother and widow- 
hood. It seems to me now, that Satan must have been 
near me then, trying to pervert my soul, in that dark hour 
of fatherless distress. I could not pray — could not lift up 
my thoughts from death, and the desolation it can make, 
in human hearts and human homes. I sat me down close 
to my mother — took her pale hand in mine and kissed 
it — then folded it silently to my heart. I could not speak 
to her in that huur of anguish, unless she had first spoken 
to me ; but I yearned to make her feel that she had 
something left on earth that was all her own, and that she 
was still beloved. From that time until she died, in after 
years, my sister Genevra and I were perfectly devoted to 
her comfort and happiness. There is a sacred sort of 
pleasure in remembering that my dear mother was the 
most submissive mourner I have ever seen. 

Then he told me many things, Annettie, about his home 
and his sorrows at that sad period of his life ; but it would 
make a volume if I should attempt to tell you half the 
interesting things he tells to me, with his musical voice of 
tender cadency. I greatly enjoy telling you what I can, 
dear sister, and will continue to do so, when it is practica- 
ble. With a kind good-night, I am, as ever, 

Y ours, W alter Verily. 


132 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


LETTER XVIII. 

Dear Annettie — I must tell you some things that Lrael 
has just narrated about the last days of his uncommon 
father. Speaking of their desolation and grief, he said, 
Fortunately for our sadness, my father had tenderly pro- 
vided for our safety from any annoyance about property 
and appraisement after his death. There were no legalities 
for the court to attend to. His will was written before his 
sickness, and was full of wisdom and affection. He gave 
my mother entire possession of every thing belonging to 
his estate so long as she lived. After her death, it was to 
be equally divided for his children, except that Genevra 
should have a double portion, and her brothers should pay 
her five per cent, interest on all they received of his estate, 
so long as she lived. In his sickness my father talked 
much about dying, tho’ we had some reason to hope for 
his recovery. 

One day, before we were alarmed about him, he called 
my mother and all the children that were at home to come 
near him. Then he said, Israel, read to me now a psalm, 
and then pray to the Lord for my soul, and heart, and mind. 
Ask that I may be more and more a child of light — that 
I may think, and feel, and speak as I ought in all the days 
of my lingering life. This sickness may not be unto death, 
yet we cannot know, and I wish to be ready and waiting 
for the great transition. “Blessed is that servant whom 
his Lord when he cometh shall find waiting.” 

I read the 23d Psalm, and tried to pray as my dear 
father wished me to pray. When that was done, he said, 
God bless you, my priceless son. I thank Him every day 
for the gift of praying children. Then he said, go to my 
desk, Israel, and bring from the little drawer my written 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


133 


will and read it to us. I wish to talk about it with my 
family. 

I brought the paper and read it to him as he requested. 
Then he said, I want to tell you all why I gave Genevra 
more than the other children. She has told me her deter- 
mination never to marry any person. Such has been her 
resolve ever since poor Norah was married. She will, 
perhaps, live longer than her mother, and be homeless, 
and fatherless, and motherless, all, before she dies. Only 
think how much need she would have for money to make her 
tolerably comfortable, and tolerably independent. Fragile, 
and sensitive, and alone, in a world like this, how inevit- 
able and great her sorrows might be, even with a good 
estate to help her. I know she has brothers, and they love 
her ; yet they may all die before she does. If they live 
on they may all be married to wives with whom it would 
be oppressive for her to live. Good men often marry such 
wives. My sons are gentle and credulous of human good- 
ness, and may be easily mistaken in those whom they love 
and wed. It is not to be expected they will all be so wise 
or so fortunate as Robert in choosing a wife. In view of 
the many uncertainties of this life, it is sufely my parental 
duty to provide a tolerable independence for Genevra. It 
may be I have not given her enough for old age and pro- 
tracted sickness, both of which may come to her at once 
before she leaves this mortal life. If she outlives her 
mother and her parental home, I charge you, my sons, with 
the sacred admonition of a dying father, that you be faith- 
ful and tender brothers to your sister Genevra so long as 
she lives. There are many wants for a person like her 
that money cannot buy and that no other person but a 
brother can possibly bestow. Remember that, to her a 
brother’s place cannot be supplied by any other person or 
power on earth. All thtse things I would say and provide 


134 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


for her, because she is my lone daughter. Ami then there 
is something more I must say for Genevra ; she deserves 
to have more than any other one of my children. 

* My sons have been good and faithful, but she has been 
more than faithful, and has had less recompense than they 
have had. She did not plant and reap the fields as they 
did, but she has saved us hundreds and thousands of dol- 
lars by her industry, and skill, and self-denial. Site has 
made life easier and lovelier than it could have been with- 
out her influence. Her mother could not have accom- 
plished her plans of domestic comfort without her helping 
hand. And then, she was such a faithful moni r or, such a 
living vigil of love to help us all grow wiser and better. 
When I look back upon our lives, I can but wish that 
Genevra had toiled less and used more of the spending- 
money in our home. She seldom used more than forty 
dollars in a year for herself, and when the crops were im- 
perfect she would get almost nothing but shoes and gloves. 
I have never seeu a child so faithful, and so self-forgetting 
as Genevra, and while she lives on earth I wish her to feel 
the tenderness and power of my fatherly care for her. 
My sons, he said, can battle with the world and grow 
stronger and manlier for the conflict — they are as trees in 
the wilderness of life — but Genevra is as a tender vine 
that would perish if not supported by parental care. 
These are some of the reasons why I give her more. than a 
double portion, and then specify in my written will that, if 
she outlives her mother she will have the power to hold 
this parental home, as all her own one entire year after 
her mother’s death. In the first year of her great desola- 
lation, she would be apt to wish it so. My soul has often 
been sick at beholding what legal action about property 
sometimes inflicts on the fatherless, in the darkest hours of 
their bereavement. “ The law requires it,” was the pretext 


LIVING. AND LOVING. 


135 


fur some of the most unjust inhumanities I have ever seen. 
I have kept a written will, he said, ever since poor 
Norah married Eli Wolverton. Sitan might tempt him 
to disturb you all very much, if there should be no writ- 
ten will when I die to hinder such annoyance. There is 
no money and no property that could be spared from 
this family, without injustice and oppression. My dear 
father talked on about our affairs for a time, and then he 
said, wife, come nearer to me, and put your hand in 
mine. I want to say again how good you have been to me, 
always trying to make me happy and always helping me 
and never willing to grieve me. I thought it would be so 
when I asked you to leave your father’s goodly home on 
the Shenandoah bank, and come with me to this woody 
land and be a farmer’s wife. I love to remember our 
early days — how we played together iu childhood, and 
how beautiful it was. You were always a good little girl 
and I always loved you, but did not know it until I went 
to the University. Then, when I wanted to see Rosamond 
Lee more than I did my father and mother, it seemed to 
me I must be in love with you. How bashful and lovely 
you looked when I told you this, while at home in the first 
vacation, just before my father moved to Kentucky and to 
this very home. I wish you had kept the letters I wrote 
to you from the University in the next two years. It is 
strange how my thoughts go back into the past just 
now ! It may be conscience that impels me, or it may be 
the whispering angels, we cannot know ; but my heart and 
mind turn earnestly back, just now, to live again through 
all the past of my earthly pilgrimage. And very sweet it 
appears to me ! I would like to live it all again with you, 
my Rosamond. Even our sorrows have a sacred sort of 
sweetness and dearness — all our sorrows but one. It pains 
me now to think we permitted poor Norah to marry Eli 


136 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


Wolverton. I try to forget it and think only of the good- 
ness and mercy of the Lord, which have followed me all 
the days of my life. Glory to God in the highest for the 
gift of his Redeeming Love, and for the hope we have of 
living in a better world than this. I will watch for my 
dear ones at the gates of pearl, for I expect you all to walk 
in the light that leads straight up to the paradise on high. 
At another time he said, It is a great mercy to sicken 
and die so gently as this — to be rational and calm, and 
strong enough to talk to you all as I wish to talk. I have 
often prayed for my last days to be as these are, in the 
bosom of my family. It gives me a holy j >y to think it 
may all be in answer to my poor prayers, and a token of 
divine love to me and to my house. Dr. Verily, said 
Israel, it was almost heavenly to hear my father’s words 
of faith, and hope, and love, when the time of his de- 
parture came near. Like a little child, he trusted implic- 
itly in the merit and mercy of our crucified aud risen 
Redeemer. Often he would say or sing, with a look of 
radiance and hope : 

“ Nothing in my hand I bring; 

Simply to Thy cross I cling.” 

The vacancy he left remained in our hearts and in our 
home; but we learned to think of him as being still alive, 
and loving us more and more, in his heavenly existence. 

Our home was always pervaded by a pensive sadness, 
after the death of my father; and the face of my dear 
mother never ceased to wear the touching expression of 
resignation and widowhood. For five years we lived tran- 
quilly and hopingly on. In the summers, we toiled, as 
when my father lived, and in the winters Mark and Alfred 
went to school. Genevra and I helped them with their 
lessons, as father had always done, and they learned well. 
Both of them loved books, and improved all the odd 
moments of time bv reading the best literature. 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


137 


While we were thus striving to help each other, and be 
resigned to the sorrows of life, poor Norah parted from 
her husband, and came home to my sad, weary mother, 
with two sons and two daughters to be helped and edu- 
cated. I have told you before, my dear Doctor, that they 
came home to us ; but time can never tell the blighting 
and oppression that it inflicted. I couid not bear to think 
of the woes and toils it thrust upon my weary mother, 
and it was hideous to think that my sister was parted 
from her husband. I never asked why she did it, and no 
one ever told me. She was willful and wayward about 
marrying him, and she may have been so in parting from 
him. But it was all done; and Norah had made my 
father’s family to be a people commiserated and com- 
mented upon by all around them. O Dr. Verily ! said 
Israel, how bitter it seems to my soul, even now, when the 
days of my life are numbered. My sweet mother never 
murmured about it, and we all did what we could for 
Norah and for her children. It is some consolation to 
hope that, in the light of eternity, we shall see that our 
trials and sufferings were good for them that distressed us. 
We talked much of this, Annettie, and then he said, By 
this time my brother Mark was nineteen years old, and 
Alfred was seventeen. They were no longer my little 
brothers. B >th were tall and vigorous for their age, and 
so well cultivated and developed, that their tastes and 
abilities were manifest and decided. Mark seemed to 
have a passion for farming. The retirement of rural life, 
and its beauty, charmed his heart, and suited his flue taste 
and manly nature. He said it seemed to him, a farmer 
could be as cultivated, and refined, and religious, and 
independent, and useful, as any other man, and these 
made up the sum of his wishes for himself. 

Alfred seemed to love all things good and beautiful iu 


138 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


the universe — luved to work, mentally and physically, and 
was singularly gentle and amiable. When quite a child, 
he manifested a taste for anatomy. He would dissect a 
pig’-s foot or a bird’s wing at the breakfast table, and could 
not eat a slice of beef’s liver without wondering at the 
cords and cavities he chanced to find in it. When he was 
seventeen years old, I a>ked him which of all the profes- 
sions he would like best for himself, and it did not take 
him a moment to decide. Brother Israel, he said, I would 
rather be a good doctor of medicine than anything else in 
this world. Mark and I had believed this before he told 
us. Our farming had prospered of late and we had deter- 
mined to send him to the University, and if he wished to 
study medicine after he graduated, we would still work 
hard for him and let him study it with all the advantages 
we could bestow. All this we decided to do for Alfred, if 
mother and Genevra were willing to let him go from home 
at eighteen. We discussed it with them before we men- 
tioned it to Alfred, and when I remember the struggle 
it cost their hearts and minds, I wish we had never thought 
of his leaving home so young for any earthly attainment. 
I believe now there is prophetic meaning in affection, when 
it is prayerful, and holy, and deep, like theirs, and it 
ought to rule our lives more than it does. 

We persuaded mother and Genevra to indulge Alfred’s 
tastes and let us have some variety in the occupations of 
our family. When he was eighteen we sent him to Tran- 
sylvania. At home we all economized for his sake, and 
Mark and I worked bravely to accomplish all we had to 
do. We were certain then it was right to give Alfred bet- 
ter advantages than he could have at home. But now, 
when it is all done, we doubt the wisdom of that decision. 
Perhaps we did not pray earnestly enough for the wisdom 
that comes from above. Self-denial and brotherly love 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


13i» 


are not enough for us while Satan “goes about seeking 
whom he may devour.” We must pray, my dear Doctor, 
if we would he safe — must pray often and earnestly while 
we work for God and for those we love on earth, or Satan 
will snatch for himself our very best endeavors. He hates 
every good and lovely thing in this world, and has millions 
of ways to destroy them. 

You see, Annettie, that my dear Israel believes as much 
about the ways and the powers of Sitan as we do. He 
has told me that the goodness of God seemed infinite to 
him in the teachings of his word concerning this great ad- 
versarv, and that his fear of Sitan would be intolerable, 
if God hail not promised to deliver them that put their 
trust in Him. It is beautiful to see how implicitly he be- 
lieves in the promises and the power of our Infinite 
Father and Saviour. How sweet it is to have such a 
friend, even for a day ! It is easy to be good even when I 
think of him. We ought to have known each other 
sooner. But I will not repine at this while he is spared 
to me. Pray for him sometimes, Annettie, when you ask 
of Heaven good gifts for me, your own devoted brother. 
Good night. Walter Verily. 


LETTER XIX. 

Dear Annettie — I cannot wait another day to tell you 
how we met Miss Cornelia on the street five days ago, and 
that she was looking almost divine. How elegant she is 
with her simple style of dress and manner. It was almost 
like seeing a vision of angels to greet her and listen to her 
voice for a moment. She was in a hurry, she said, tho’ it 
was by no means her taste to be so driven by circumstances. 
But the shopping must be done ; and she must go home on 
the train with Claud that evening. 


140 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


I mu4 tell you that she gave me a ready permit to take 
my dear friend Israel to visit her at her home. She said 
it would give them all great pleasure to make the acquaint- 
ance of Mr. Arlington, for they had wished to know him 
ever since he began to edit the literary corner of the 
Palladium, and that they were grieved when his health 
prevented the benign working of his pen. 

I ventured to appoint a day f. >r our visit, without con- 
sulting Israel, and yesterday we went down on the morning 
train and spent the day at Vinolia. It would give you 
pleasure to know all that we said and did in that delightful 
day, but it is not in my power to detail the words and ways 
that blended into perfection which cannot be described. 

Hospitality in the Vidii home is like sunshine, so natural, 
and warm’ and free. The conversation on yesterday was 
varied and charming. Poets and sages might have enjoyed 
it — so might the most saintly divine — yet it was all cheer- 
ful, and unconstrained, and sometimes brilliant. In the 
evening the young ladies sang two or three songs, and then 
the day was ended. We made our reluctant adieus and 
said our thanks for the happiness of that day, and, with 
hands full of fl >wers, came home to the city, to sleep, and 
dream, and wake in the next morning with a new sense of 
the beauty of human life. 

My dear Israel spent the night with me, and this morn- 
ing we talked again of our delightful visit on yesterday. 
He enjoyed it as much as I thought he would, aud says he 
is almost iu love with the whole Vidii family. He has 
known for some time all about my admiration for Miss 
Cornelia, and the reasms why I will not suffer myself to 
love her decidedly. He says now he almost believes I am 
too scrupulous and wise about this loving. But even his 
calm opinion, added to Miss Cornelia’s loveliness, cannot 
move me a jot from my scruples aud my resolve about 


living and lo ving. 


141 


loving with my whole heart. I told Israel this morning 
that I had always seen Miss Cornelia when the current of 
her life was smooth and bright — no ripple in the tide, 
and no shadow or cross for her to endure. I told him, 
Annettie, that, like you, and like him, I could believe that 
Miss Cornelia would he just, and generous, and tender, and 
patient, and kind, if she were really tested, but I do not 
know it, and knowledge is the only thing that can satisfy 
me on this important point. 

Israel smiled one of his divine smiles and said, you are 
wise, my dear doctor, and I honor your courage and your 
firmness. Let us hope you will arrive shortly at the knowl- 
edge you wish for, and when it comes, may it be genial 
and sweet to your manly heart. Then we talked about 
the difficulty of ascertaining such knowledge, and it is 
difficult, Annettie. Perhaps I shall never know any thing 
about Miss Cornelia’s real disposition, unless God, in His 
infinite goodness, sees fit to help me in a way past finding out 
by mortal skill. If “ the hairs of our head are all num- 
bered,” why shall I not hope that He will much more care 
to help me in the momentous reality of choosing the wife 
of my heart — the angel of ray home? I have learned to 
look alone to Him for this, and for all that makes life safe, 
and good, and valuable on earth. Pray for me, dear 
sister, and be sure to remember the perplexity of my heart 
about Miss Cornelia ; and also, that I have much sorrow 
for the decaying strength of my dear friend Israel. 

Mother’s letters keep you informed about herself and 
every thing roundabout, social and religious, so I have only 
to say good-night, just now, and end this little letter, from 
Your affectionate brother, Walter Verily. 


142 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


LETTER XX. 

Dear Annettie — Israel resumed his interesting history 
to-day, by saying, My brother Alfred came home from the 
university to spend his vacations. He seemed to enjoy 
the first one as much as we did — we who were pining to 
fold him to our hearts, and live with him forever. 

When he was with us in the next summer, there were 
undefinable monitions of estrangement in his heart and 
mind. We all felt it, and tried to think we were mis- 
taken, but alas ! we lived to learn that it was all too true ! 
When he graduated and came home, a letter from the 
head of the university assured my mother that her son, 
Alfred Arlington, was the favorite of all the teachers and 
pupils in the institution — that he had never violated a' 
rule, nor inflicted an unkindness, and was universally 
amiable and polite in all his words and ways. As a 
student he was almost wonderful. 

So spake this letter of approbation ; and it was delight- 
ful to my mother, and to all of us, who loved him with 
a perfect love. As a family, we knew no dearer object 
uf affection. There was not one of us who did not feel 
his prosperity to be as our own. His success was our 
success; for we had worked for it, and prayed for him, 
ever since the early morning of his existence. But we 
had not prayed enough ; for Alfred was not a Christian. 
Loving-kindness, and prayers, and Sabbaths, and sermons, 
had not availed to lead him out of nature’s darkness into 
the marvelous light of redeeming love. He did not see 
the excellency and beauty of God’s written will and 
word — did not love supremely the things that are spiritual 
and eternal. He wanted to be a Christian, he said ; but 
it was a wish, rather than a determination and an en- 
deavor. Words may never tell, my dear Doctor, how 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


143 


my heart pined to wake him up from this darkness and 
apathy, and fix his faith and his feet upon our glorious, 
only Rock of Salvation. Besides this cause of solicitude 
for Alfred, there was another — his heart was not as it 
should be towards the parental home and its loving inmates. 
Now and then there would be a word, or act, or an omis- 
sion, that could only spring from alienated feeling, and a 
want of interest. Our old apprehensions on this point 
were confirmed, and to Genevra and me, it was a great 
sorrow. We did not complain of it, nor love him less, 
but tenderly sought to win him back to the brotherly love 
of other days. We did not mention it to mother, became 
we wished to turn her thoughts away from a thing so 
mournful. We prayed for Alfred in secret, more and 
more earnestly, and hoped, and waited, for some sweet 
influence to sweep the cords of his heart, and wake it up 
to the olden melody of affection, but alas! it never came 
to him again. It may be, there was some latent defect in 
his nature that led to this bewilderment, or, it may all 
have come from the deadly poison of imbibed worldliness. 
We cannot know, or comprehend the mystery, until we 
reach a world of perfect light and perfect love. When 
that summer was ended, Alfred commenced the study of 
medicine, under the teaching of a skillful physician, in a 
little town three miles from home. Often he would bring 
his books, and study day and night at home. He seemed 
to enjoy every thing — his studies, his privileges, and his 
home. We hoped then that his primitive nature was 
returning to him and to us, yet, alas ! as I have said before, 
it never came to him again. 

When the summer returned, and he was resting a little 
from close study, he talked of taking a pleasure-trip from 
home. I told him that sister Genevra needed recreation 
on horseback, and he could do us good by staying at home 


144 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


and devoting part of his time to her health and comfort. 

I could not leave the plow to wait on her, and the exercise 
of riding in the open air was very important to her health 
in summer time. He knew it all, Dr. Verily, yet he re- 
fused to relinquish a selfish wish of his own for her good, 
and for the good of all in our home. He refused even 
sternly and harshly. Said he was willing to do some 
things for me and some for sister Genevra, but he intended 
to*he the judge as to what he would do and what he would 
not do. His tones and manner were more cruel than his 
words, and to me it was all an overwhelming shock. I 
began to grow grey from that hour. 

I believed that Genevra would die before many years 
if we did not take special care of her health* But 
even that seemed beautiful compared with my fears for 
Alfred. What would the end be of such heart and mind 
as he had manifested? I felt a sense of despair. I could 
forgive him and love him always, but there was anguish 
in every thought of him that I could think. I could over- 
look his ingratitude to me, but it was hard to forgive his 
inhumanity to his fragile, faithful, and fatherless sister. 
She had never left anything undone for him that she could 
do by any sacrifice of her own interest, and time and 
comfort. I have seen her renovate the collar of his coat 
seven times over, to make it look as nice as she wished it 
to be. She was quite as fastidious for her brothers as she 
was for herself. The contrast between her ways and those 
of poor Alfred was too great for me, and I felt it to be a 
terrible affliction. But no matter for that — what could we 
do to save him from the powers of evil ! The Bible says 
overcome evil with good, and our hearts were in perfect 
harmony with the divine precept. 

You can believe me, dear doctor, when I tell you that 
Alfred’s unmanly words and ways only deepened the ten- 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


145 


derness of my affection for him. He seemed to me as on 
the brink of an abyss — a terrible destruction. My soul 
grew prophetic, and trembled, and shuddered, and clung 
to him. I could not give him up then, I cannot now, I 
never can. Then, and ever since, the thought would come 
to me — perhaps it was all my fault — and if not all — cer- 
tainly I had helped to mould his manhood and his destiny, 
I had helped to send him into the world’s uncertain current 
without a chart to save him from its vortex, though I knew 
then that he was not a Christian. 

Here, Annettie, I tried to comfort my dear Israel, and 
turn him away from this self-reproach which seemed too 
painful, and then he said, It may have been that Alfred 
was spoiled with happiness, ©ur home was all completed, 
and in its best estate, when he was old enough to enjoy it. 
The heavy tasks of our family were endured by the rest of 
us, and when Alfred had to plough and toil, his mind was 
free from cares and solicitudes. We all tried to make it 
so, because we loved him. Could this be the cause of his 
selfishness? Was he a petted boy, and his soul enervated 
by our unwise affection and tenderness ? and have I been 
foremost in that fatal work of love and error ? God forgive 
and pity him and me, is ever the prayer of my suffering 
spirit, whenever I think of my brother Alfred. There 
may be more intense affection than mine for him, but I 
have never seen it manifested by any human being. It 
seems to me now, when my spirit has put on its immortal- 
ity, I will draw very near to the great white throne, and 
to the feet of my Redeemer, and there entreat for mercy 
and help for my brother Alfred — help to save him from 
his own darkness, and from the death that never dies. 

When the time arrived for him to attend medical lec- 
tures, we sent him to the best medical school in a neigh- 
10 


146 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


boring State, and he progressed rapidly in the acquisition 
of knowledge and skill in his chosen profession. 

During that winter he met a young lady from Lake 
Erie, who was well acquainted with our relatives in that 
locality; and when she talked of them, there was some- 
thing in her manner that charmed him ; and he soon 
became her devoted lover. Before the winter was ended, 
he w r as betrothed to her, and the next summer he visited 
her at home. Perhaps, Dr. Verily, I have not told you 
that we have many relatives near Lake Erie. None of us, 
before Alfred, had ever visited them, because we could not 
spare the time and the money it would require. Yet we 
loved them very much, and some of them had visited us. 
My cousin Carlottie Bell is one of those. You must not 
forget how good and great she is in the estimation of my 
brother Robert. When my father came from Virginia, 
there were quite a number of his relatives who went to 
that part of Ohio, preferring it to Kentucky. They were 
charmed, partly, by the lake, I believe. Living water is 
so lovely in a landscape, it is not strange they should have 
felt so. Carlottie Bell used to tell us she was out of her 
element when away from her Lakeland home. 

But I did not intend to digress so far from poor Alfred, 
just now. When he visited the lady of his love, and told 
Carlottie of his betrothal, it distressed her. She was well 
acquainted with Dollie Stone, and felt it to be her duty to 
tell him, she had a terrible disposition ; that she was selfish 
and high -tempered, and had very little understanding. 
She had not even improved the advantages of common 
education, and cared more for embroidery, than for any 
attainment in knowledge, or wisdom, or goodness. 

Alfred told her it made him sorry to hear these things, 
but he was not afraid of Dollie’s disposition. Cousin Car- 
lottie, he said, she can change, and grow lovely in the 


Living and loving. 


147 


sunshine of ray devotion to her. Poor boy, he was infat- 
uated, and determined to have every thing his own way. 

In due time he graduated, with plaudits and benedic- 
tions from the professors in his medical school. 

Then he determined to be married, before he located, 
and began the labors of his profession. 

When he was married, and brought his wife home to 
us, we knew nothing about her, save what he had told us, 
and our hopes of her loveliness were almost as high and 
bright as his own. But when I looked upon her face, and 
listened to her voice, my heart grew sick with misgiving, 
and apprehension of evil. The ungentle eyes, and severe 
looking mouth, could not be easily mistaken. My hopes 
for my dear brother all sank down, with a feeling of pro- 
phetic despair. Yet he was as happy in her love as if she 
had been angelic. He was almost an idolater, and her 
power over him for good or evil was limitless. We wished 
them to spend the winter with us, and so they did. 

In our home we were all as much devoted to the happi- 
ness of Alfred and Dollie as we had been to Robert and 
Nonie. But it was painful and curious to see the differ- 
ence between Dollie and Nonie. I would forget it if I 
could, and dream that my brother Alfred is devoting his 
life to a being, gentle, and wise, and good. One who 
could make the difficulties of life seem less difficult, and 
lead him heavenward, by walking before him in the beauty 
of holiness. Dollie professes to be a Christian, but she 
cannot bear a cross of any kind with the least degree of 
patience or gentleness. 

When Alfred left us to go and make himself a home 
and a position, there was a sadness in my heart unlike any 
other sadness I had ever known. My love for him had 
not been like any other love of mine. My sorrow for him 
was not like any other sorrow. My solicitude for him was 


148 


living and loving. 


not like any other solicitude. From the earliest day of ' 
existence he had been my peculiar darling, yet he h j 
dashed into my cup of life the wormwood that no otl 
being could infuse, and there was but one remedy, and c, 
hope, for its mitigation. I felt it then, I feel it no 
God, our infinite Father, can lead him out of natur 
darkness into a marvelous light, and he can become a ni 
creature in Christ Jesus. This is the only hope I have : L 
my brother Alfred, the youngest and the most favoredj L 
all my father’s children. I have never had any fears ab(, 
his worldly prosperity. His ability will secure profession 
success, and his plausible ways will win friends for hi 
wherever he may be. These are good things, and I woi 
not underrate them, yet they seem empty and dangen 
to me, without the favor of God, and a conscience voii j 
offences. Great indeed is my concern about my brotl {, 
Alfred. It may be, that the recording angel is someti il 
weary of the many prayers I offer up, for his safety i 
his soul. 

Do you see, Annettie, how much his deep heart suf 
for them that he loves ? I said what I could to coni 
and strengthen him, for he was very sad. 

Then I said, half playfully, how strange it is, my d 
Israel, that you have never said one word to me ab 
lady love for yourself. Can it be that you have been 
busy with the joys and sorrows of your home to thin! 
romantic affections of your own ? Perhaps you have b< 
cherishing a high ideal, and waiting to see its imperso 
tion, somewhere, some time ! 

No, said he, I have not been too busy, or too visiona 
to realize the gentle spell of . 

“ Love’s young dream.” 

It is a curious little chapter of sunlight and sorrow, j 
comes next in my simple chain of leading events. 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


149 


iNo reader of romance was ever more impatient for the 
Jxt chapter, than I am for that, in the history of my 
lend Israel. When he tells it to me, you shall certainly 
ot jve it from my pen, Annettie, if no evil befall, to pre- 
nnt it. Israel has told me more than once, that there is 
011 thing in his history too sacred for me to know, and tell 
my sister, if it suits me to do so. 

11 Shall I tell you now how sleepy I feel, dear sister, and 
e w pleasant it is to know that it is right to sleep? How 
'd lemn, and sacred, and wonderful, it is to sleep. How 
^ autiful it is to sleep, and wake in the light of a new 
0l ^rning, and feel that God and angels have been keeping 
to 1 in safety. I never grow weary of the sameness there is 
11 sleeping and waking. It is always beautiful, and always 
| 111 of the glory, and power, and goodness, of our Father 
heaven. May He watch over you to-night, Annettie, 
id keep you evermore in safety, when you sleep and 
hen you wake. Good-night — good-night. 

Affectionately, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XXI. 

Dear Annettie — My inimitable friend began the his- 
>ry of his romance by saying : Perhaps, my dear Doctor, 
m will think me absurd more than once, while you listen 
{ this chapter of my human life. Please to remember, 
6wever, that there is a large amount of character in the 
ay a person loves. People often think they love when 
ley do not, and I may be mistaken, but it seems to me I 
Wed really, for years, a being who was lovely as a poet’s 
learn, and good enough to win the love of angels. I 
•ould like for words to paint her, before your mental 
feion, if it were possible, tho’ she was not what the world 


150 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


calls beautiful. She was fair as the lilies, and her eyes 
were blue as the perfect sky. When we first met at 
school, her golden hair attracted my childish taste; but 
very soon, her gentle ways and her sweet voice seemed 
lovelier to me than her ringlets. Her father was our 
family physician, and lived only three miles from us; but 
I had never seen little Edith Alabalm until the first win- 
ter after my rheumatism was cured. For years after that 
time, she shed a sort of musical influence over my spirit. 

I thought it was love, that beautiful melody of truth and 
innocence ; but I never told her I loved her, and never 
intended to tell her. My will was stronger than my aff c- 
tion. I did not wish to win her heart, and therefore kept 
the pulses of my own heart concealed from her. 

It is natural, Dr. Verily, that you should wonder why 
this blight and burden should be on my young manhood, 
and I will tell you why. There is a deep lesson in it. I 
was not willing to be the son-in-law of Dr. Alabalm, and 
therefore crushed the love that was in my heart for his 
lovely child. He was as respectable as any man, and his 
profession gave him claims to human confidence and affec- 
tion. With our community he had influence; yet when I 
was a sickly child, his faults revolted my upright mind. 
The older I grew, the more certain it appeared to me that 
he had very little real principle, and very little feeling. 
He was careful about committing himself, yet he would 
speak injuriously and unjustly of the best people he knew, 
if it suited his mood or his policy. He was time-serving 
and mercenary; and so inaccurate in common things that 
I could not feel the least confidence in his words. These 
things I knew by seeing and hearing him for myself. To 
me, he seemed a dangerous person, when I was twelve 
years old ; and by the time I was fifteen it was impossible 
for me to respect him. His gentle daughter was like her 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


151 


excellent mother, and worthy of all love and confidence. 
But the good must suffer for the sins of others in this 
curious world ; and I could not — would not — permit my- 
self to cultivate a grand affection for the daughter of Dr. 
Alabalm. Desolation and a broken heart would have 
been better for me, than alliance to such a man. I was 
polite to him, tho’; and visited his children, now and 
then. After we were grown, I paid attention to Miss 
Edith, just as I did to other young ladies. She seldom 
left home, except to attend church. Her nature was sin- 
gularly retiring and serene. She loved books, and flowers, 
and home, better than assemblies. All this deepened my 
admiration for her ; and it must have been the spell of 
love, that made the universe seem so bright to me when I 
thought of Edith Alabalm. 

Edith was not well at the time my brother Alfred and 
Dollie were receiving farewell visits, yet she called to see 
them. After they left us she sent for Genevra to go and 
cheer her sickness. She loved my sister, and they had 
always been friends. In our rural community it was trea- 
son to neglect the sick and suffering ones ; and all were 
anxious about Edith Alabalm when it was asserted that she 
had fever. Soon she had to be nursed day and night. I 
went to see her, and she said I migh't watch over her that 
evening with Genevra. The doctors had said she would 
die, and it seemed to me a certainty so soon as I looked 
upon her altered face. How mournful it was to see her, I 
cannot express. So young, and fair, and good, why should 
she die and millions of common things live on ? “ who 
by searching can find out the wisdom of the Almighty.” 
While I sat beside her, and thought upon these things, I 
prayed a silent prayer for myself, and then for Edith Ala- 
balm — the playmate of my childhood — the guileless dis- 
ciple of my risen Redeemer — my sister in Christ — prayed 


152 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


that she might die a calm and triumphant death when the 
final hour should come to her. She did not hear my 
prayer, yet she looked into my face and said, I am going 
to die, brother Israel, and “it is not grievous but joyous.” 
I love the home that is prepared for the children of God, 
and it will not be long before the friends I leave will come 
up there to dwell with Him and me forever. 

When Genevra had bathed her feverish hands, and lips, 
and brow, I asked her if she knew how much I loved her. 
No, she said ; it has never seemed to me that you loved 
me at all since we were little children. I told her she had 
always seemed lovelier and dearer to me than any other 
person out of my home, and I wanted her to know it before 
she parted from the things of time to realize the j >ys of 
eternity. A radiant smile came over her sick face, and 
she said, I am glad you told me. It seems like a spell of 
the beautiful come back from my childhood. It made me 
happy then to think you loved me; it makes me happy 
now — now when I am done with all created things. I do 
not hear the flutes of angels, nor their harps and voices, 
yet I feel as if the melodies of heaven were floating around 
me. You have always been so good and brave, brother 
Israel, that it is sweet to be loved by you. I will carry it 
with me to heaven, and keep it in my memory forever. 
And let me tell you, she said, how I loved you better than 
my brothers when we were children, and I thought you 
loved me. When we grew out of our childhood, and you 
treated me just as you did other people, I learned to think 
we had both outgrown our childish affection. But it was 
affection once, and very beautiful. I have often thought 
how curious it was; you were so manly, brother Israel, 
and I was so womanly in those childhood days. I remem- 
ber you kissed me once in play, and I cried all day about 
it. When you saw it distressed me you cried, too, and 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


153 


asked me to forgive you. Then I was sorry for you, and 
grieved that I had wept. It was all painful then, but now 
it seems all poetry. Israel paused and sighed, Annettie, 
and then he said, in tones of perfect softness and sweet- 
ness, Gentle and guileless, indeed, was Edith Alabalm ! 
In heart and soul she was still a child. There was just 
enough fever in her veins to make her strong and talkative. 
It was difficult to listen to her words and realize that her 
hours were numbered, yet it was true. The chiseled lips 
that never gave to any human being one kiss of woman’s 
angelic love, would soon be cold as marble ; the golden 
ringlets and the long silken fringe of her eyelids, would 
soon be hidden away in the deep grave. 

The next morning she began palpably to die, and when 
the sun was setting in splendor and smiles, we were assem- 
bled round the dying couch 

“ To watch, while the grace 
Of eternity’s wonderful beauty grew over her face.” 

It was a holy privilege to be there, and see the dying 
smile of one so ready to be taken away by the angels of 
God — one so ready to appear in His divine presence. 

We watched over the beautiful clay two days and nights, 
and then consigned it to the insatiable grave. It was 
April, and the violets, white and blue, looked up, and 
seemed to say, she is not dead, but sleeping — sleeping as 
we did in the winter time. She will wake again, and live, 
and love, and sing. We wake and bloom, to testify this 
truth for Him who made the universe and us. 

I could listen to the violets, my dear Doctor, and be sat- 
isfied. The world did not grow dark to me, and my heart 
did not sickeu with anguish as in other bereavements of 
mine. Edith Alabalm was always in love with immortal- 
ity, and heaven was a more fitting home for her than earth 
could ever be. It was still pleasant to think of her love- 


154 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


liness. It was not painful to think of her folded hands, 
tho’ they were more beautiful than flowers. I asked her 
mother to let me kiss her cold white hands, when we laid 
her in the coffin, and am glad I did so. Her lips were too 
sacred for me to touch, ever since the kiss I snatched, when 
she was seven years old. She seemed lovelier to me always, 
for weeping with sorrow, because a boy who was not her 
brother, had kissed her. Even at seven years of age, she 
felt that delicate deference is a woman’s birthright. 

I have always been glad that Genevra and I were with 
her in her dying days, and that I told her of my love for 
her. When I saw she would die, it seemed to me she had 
a right to hear it op earth, and from my own words. I 
love to remember the light that came over her face while 
she listened, and when she replied to my simple revelation 
of truth and love. That one hour of converse with our 
dying Edith has saved me from many regrets, I am sure. 

Dear Annettie, I wish you could have heard Israel nar- 
rate this mournful and beautiful chapter of his history. 
His voice seemed to undulate with the deep emotions of 
his soul, and it seemed to me the tenderest, sweetest strain 
of pathos that mortal ever heard. I do not expect to hear 
the like again, ’til we meet in the land of all perfection. 

When he had ended this part of his narration, he said, 
I hope, my dear Doctor, you will tell me what you think 
of such love and such wisdom as mine ? I took his hand 
in both of mine, and said with earnest sympathy, your 
tenderness and truth are almost divine, my dear Israel, but 
I am glad you were brave, and strong, and wise, just where 
a man ought to be brave, and wise, and strong. It helps 
me to know there is one religious human being who thinks 
as I do about loving, in an age like this. 

Romance, and folly, and satan, have so bewildered and 
enervated the common mind, on the subject of romantic 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


155 


love, that many clever people now affirm, we have no con- 
trol over our affections. I have heard good men say it 
myself, and it sounded to me like the voice of an appall- 
ing woe — a hideous danger — an insult to man, and to his 
beneficent Creator. I would repudiate my heart for its 
insanity, if it could follow an affection that reason and rec- 
titude did not approve. 

Then, said Israel, we are both of one mind on this mo- 
mentous subject. I know it now, better than ever before. 
His pale face grew brighter, and he talked on, saying, it 
will interest you, dear Doctor, to know, that through all 
things, I have dreamed of loving happily, and being wed- 
ded, sometime, to a person whose kindred could be to me 
almost as dear as my own. It was never my wish to be 
married young, but to be “slow and sure” about fiuding 
the right person, if she came across my earthly orbit, my 
path of duty. I studied about her often, when toiling at 
the plough, or working among the trees and flowers for 
my mother. I never idealized her face or aspect, but her 
words, and voice, and principles, I delighted to conjecture, 
and my imagination always painted her in the presence of 
a family of brothers and sisters, with parents, whose integ- 
rity I could delight to honor and love. I have watched for 
all this, and have come very near seeing it more than once, 
among the daughters of our land, hut never quite to the 
degree that suited me. 

Miss Antonia Wentworth was the only lady who ever 
attracted me, except Edith Alabalm. The beauty of her 
soul was in all her words and ways, and the melody of her 
voice seemed to flow out from her heart. 

Well, said I, you are a profound person, my dear Israel! 
I never suspected that you were the least in love with 
Miss Antonia, tho’ we have talked so often about her per- 
fections and her mournful death. No, Doctor, he said, 


) LIVING AND LOVING. 

th sadness, I never was really in love with Miss Antonia; 
t it would have been very easy to love her, if it had 
ted me to do so. You must know that her brothers 
re as repugnant to my feelings and principles as Dr. 
abalm was. When I first came to this city, it was my 
; to hear authentic comments on their neglect of Miss 
ntonia ; and nothing would constrain me to wish to wed 
e sister of such men — plausible, and respectable, and 
iulent, tho’ they certainly are. And besides this feeling 
aversion to ignoble human character, it would not have 
;en possible to make Miss Antonia quite happy, even if 
,e could have been won by me. She loved her brothers 
tensely, and there would have been a mournful discord 
her life, however silent and considerate I might have 
3en concerning them. 

Then we talked about the Wentworths, Annettie; and I 
»ld Israel how much those brothers had changed since 
ley were married. 

Certainly, said he, there is enough in life to make a 
erson cautious about loving. The Wentworths are enough 
) make a man afraid of himself, and of everything that 
earthly. In a world like this, it is a mercy to live and 
ie, without being married to the wrong person. I would 
ot persuade others to follow my example in this — but the 
ns and sorrows of other people make me glad to be alone 
n earth, as I am now. It is sweet to die without the 
light and bitterness of misplaced affection. Life is short ; 
nd God, and the duties of life, can always make life 
eautiful. 

The Divine Redeemer of the world dwelt with his 
ather and mother, until He was thirty years old, and was 
ubject to them. This is expressly written for our instruc- 
ion ; and there is, I apprehend, a deeper lessson intended 
han most of persons suppose. In this, as in all things, I 


LIVING AND LOVING. ] 

have taken Christ as my only perfect teacher, and t 
longer I follow Him, the higher and happier is my sei 
of life and of love. 

From the time my mother taught me the first infant 
prayer, until the day I planted the last flowers on 1 
grave, my parents always seemed to need the service 
my hands, and the affection of my heart: They lived a 
died, more beautifully and blessedly, because of my toi 
and cares, and prayers. I have stood in my own lot wi 
tender fidelity, and unwavering rectitude ; and now the 
is a sense of peace in my heart, that cannot be tak 
away. Imperfect as I am, I have not lived in vain ; a 
when my judgment or wisdom have erred, it has not be 
willingly or willfully done. 

It is more than sweet to believe, that my name is safe 
recorded in the “ book of remembrance,” which is writt 
on high, “for them that fear the Lord,” and delight 
His commandments. I have never told you, dear Doct< 
that the world has repeatedly offered me profitable occuj 
tion and worldly position for myself. Some of my frien 
have earnestly told me that the world was in need of t 
ents and acquirements like mine — that it was wrong i 
me to live and die in obscurity, doing only a measure 
good with my intellect. Does it seem ungrateful for i 
to say, they did not see much higher than the level of t 
common world ? I say this, because all my pleadings 
duty and affection seemed to them only an idea and a rr 
take. They said the money I could make, would do i 
home and family more good, than all my cares and toils 
that place could ever accomplish for them. How little th 
knew about the value of living words, and deeds, a 
influences ! Gold can never buy for human hearts a 
homes the real beauty of life. 

No doubt I could have worked well in the world, a 


158 


LIVING AND LOViNd. 


made myself a home and a name, and more. All that Is 
easy for a man with energy, and cultivation, and relig- 
ious integrity. For most men it is right, so to work, and 
aim, and achieve for themselves, but for me, it would have 
been poor and selfish ; and to-day, it comforts me to remem- 
ber that I could not, would not, did not turn away from 
the tasks and duties of my parental home. May I tell 
you, Dr. Verily, that I would not exchange my suffering 
nature, my history and my destiny, for the nature, the his- 
tory and the destiny of any other human being ? And 
now, dear friend, said Israel, have we not prosed a long 
chapter about nothing but Israel Arlington — his love, his 
aversions, and his calm content ? 

Then, Annettie, he took my hand in his and said, with 
a heavenly smile of light and tenderness, Your earthly 
portion, my friend, may be richer and lovelier than mine, 
and lead as surely to heaven. Your path is brighter, and 
your duty more extended. Let me express a hope, that 
you will shortly see in Miss Cornelia Vidii all the beauties 
of soul, that are so essential to your taste and happiness in 
domestic life. From all that we know of her nature, and 
family, and training, there is reason to hope she may 
become such a woman as Solomon describes, aud says, 
“The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her. She 
will do him good and not evil all the days of her life. She 
openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue is the 
law of kindness.” This, dear doctor, describes the sort of 
person you are willing to love and trust. There are such 
people on earth, I know, and in order to find them, we 
must study human character, and watch for them. Pearls 
and rubies are not often found by chance, neither are they, 
those priceless, living pearls, of whom we have been speak- 
ing. Then, said he, I am glad, my own friend, that you 
are so wise and careful about choosing a wife. It wakes 


living and Loving. 


159 


in me prophetic visions of your happy life, and your 
enchanting home. There is an atmosphere of heavenly 
peace, and love, and joy, about some human homes that 
can always be traced to the skill and loveliness of woman. 
This is the sort of home you will inhabit, and when that 
beautiful reality is all your own, and I am gone to the 
spirit-land of light and rest, remember me sometimes, dear 
doctor, and believe, that to me, such bliss as yours seems 
like a part of heaven sent down to earth, to save and 
adorn it. 

But this historic epistle must end, dear sister. It is well 
I love to transcribe on paper the words of my friend Israel, 
since you prefer them to common books. Hoping you will 
enjoy his singular romance of the heart, I will commend 
you to God and the angels, and say 

Good night. Walter Verily. 


LETTER XXII. 

Dear Annettie — When I asked Israel to tell me the 
next chapter in his quiet life, he shoved the brown hair 
from his forehead, and sighed, and smiled, and said, After 
my brother Alfred left us, and Edith Alabalm died, there 
was no marked event in my life for three years. In our 
home, the seasons came and passed away, with all their 
flowers, and fruits, and toils, and cares. The Sabbaths of 
rest, and nights of repose, gave us strength for the duties 
of our lot. My dear mother smiled sometimes, and Gen- 
evra was often cheerful. We sang our evening hymns, and 
read the Word of God, and offered supplication and thanks 
to Him, in every closing day. Perhaps we were as happy 
then as mortals are apt to be in this unholy world. But 
the sky of my life was clouded with painful shades of 


160 


LIVING AND LOPING. 


reality, that could not pass away, and tho’ life, to me, was 
beautiful and dear, it was also very mournful. It was not 
possible to think of my brother Alfred without painful 
solicitude. My sister Norah was parted from her husband, 
and the idea of his floating about the world, and saying 
whatever satan wished him to say, was to me a terrible 
affliction. Besides all this, my dear mother was a widow 
and old, and oppressed with all poor Norah’s cares. It was 
difficult to bear, and one of the keen thorns in this was the 
fact that Norah had more consideration for her vigorous 
children than for her pale, sad, weary mother. Genevra 
and I could see it, and grieve, and tremble for the safety 
of our mother. We tried to take care of her, but it was 
not possible to keep her from being overtasked, without 
creating family discord, and that would have been more 
painful to her than any other burden. Such things as 
these make life very difficult and mournful. 

At length my mother grew sick, and was, for more than 
a year, a suffering invalid. In the beginning of her sick- 
ness, Robert and Nonie came back to us, on a visit to their 
parental homes. They were both, even more lovely than 
of old, and their children were really “ living jewels, 
dropped unstained from heaven,” as Pollock says. They 
were children, bounding and playful, but their minds, and 
hearts, and manners, were so tenderly cared for, that they 
were polished and cultivated children. 

That visit of my dear brother left undying influences of 
hope and love in all our hearts. It was a happy prelude 
to the long months of suffering that awaited our sweet 
mother. It seemed to leave a spell of joy and peace in 
her heart, which enabled her to endure suffering better 
than she could have done, if they had not come while she 
was well enough to enjoy it. I wish, dear Doctor, you 
could have heard my brother Robert’s prayers while he 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


161 


was with us. Our good father had died, since he left us, 
twelve years before ; and now, he felt that our mother was 
slowly passing away. These things helped to make him 
tender and* fervent in spirit, beyond anything I had ever 
heard before. He made us feel that God is really very 
near and very faithful, and that heaven is certainly glori- 
ous and accessible, to all believers in Christ our Lord. 
R >bert held mother in his arms once every day while he 
was with her ; tho’ in spirit, he seemed to feel himself to 
be her little child again. Brave, and tender, and true 
indeed, is my brother Robert ! All the sorrows of my lot 
seem less grievous to me when I think of him — all the 
sins of the world seem far away, and less oppressive to my 
heart and mind. Many thanks do I offer the Giver of 
perfect gifts, for the goodness and greatness of my brother, 
Robert Arlington. 

Alfred and Dollie came also to see us while our mother 
was sick. It was a joy to see Alfred again, in spite of all 
the clouds he had hung in my sky. Yet he and Dollie 
seemed to be growing more and more worldly, and less 
affectionate to every one but themselves. Nothing about 
the home of his childhood seemed of much importance 
to Alfred. He was affectionate to mother, but his thoughts 
and sympathies were evidently far away. 

Dollie was almost rude, even to mother. She said she 
did not like plain people, nor sick people, and she hated 
poor people. She said it was not possible for a person to 
know anything, or be anything, if they had never traveled 
far from home. Before she was married she had visited 
Niagara and New York, and it seems to have made her 
deaf and blind to every real excellence of human char- 
acter. Alfred was prospering in his profession, and that 
was only a promotion of her darkness and arrogance. 
Prosperity was and is, to her, a great calamity. 

11 


162 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


But Alfred and Dollie could both become wiser and 
better. This was my only solace concerning them. The 
health of my mother was then the great object of solici- 
tude in our home. No skill, or care, or affection, could 
drive away the malady that had settled in her mortal 
frame. This sad calamity came to us in the first year of 
our late civil war; and it was mournful to see how my 
gentle mother grieved over the strange, dark conflict, 
between the North and the South. She said it made her 
feel thankful that Paul and father were gone from this 
world, and living safely in a land of peace and love.. We 
tried to make her forget the strife, by keeping her home as 
sweet as possible, but the air and earth were all pervaded 
by the noise of war, and it was never absent from her 
mind. Sometimes the roar of distant artillery would reach 
her ears and sicken her entire frame. She seemed to grow 
weary of life, tho’ none of her sons were in the army. I 
have told you, doctor, why we did not leave home to fight 
in the unavailing conflict; but no matter for political rea- 
sons, X would not have left my sad, sick mother, for any 
other duty; no, not for patriotism. It was touching to 
see Genevra in that time of trial. The report of battles 
and the distant thunder of cannonades were small things 
to her. She believed that her mother would die; and to 
see her, and serve her, while she lingered, were the only 
things that Genevra could do, or see, or feel. She told 
me that she compelled herself constantly not to weep, lest 
the tears should dim her sight of mother’s face, or sadden 
mother’s heart. She thought there was no human face so 
lovely as that of our mother. The charming sweetness of 
its expression was always new and delightful to Genevra. 
I have never seen a person so devoted and tender as she 
was. She was patient with Norah, and her children, and 
every thing, for mother’s sake. But our entire home and 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


1G3 


family were wholly devoted to her for more than a year, 
and when she died, it seemed, for a long time, as if there 
was nothing worthy of our attention or endeavor. 

We buried her in the rich summer time, close beside 
my dear father, and the long green boughs of ivy that 
grew about his grave, we drew, like tendrils of affection, 
to clasp and enwreath the grave of our departed mother. 
It was, and is, a fitting repose for her, yet we grieved, and 
could not be comforted, when we laid her there. Then, 
Annettie, he covered his face with his hands and wept like 
a child. O Doctor Verily, he said, you have never seen 
your mother die. Be glad and thankful so long as you can 
see her living face and hear her speak to you. I will not 
try to tell you how you will feel when her hands are folded, 
and she is hidden away from you in the silent grave. The 
world seemed changed to me when Paul died ; it changed 
again when my father died, but there has been a strange- 
ness and a vacancy in the universe since my mother died that 
is not like any thing else. God be kind to the motherless 
ones on earth, for Jesus’ sake, is one of my most earnest 
prayers. 

After our dear mother was gone, we realized the wisdom 
and tenderness of our father, in giving Genevra the pa- 
rental home during the first year of her great bereavement. 
She said we must all stay with her, and feel that it was as 
much our home as it ever had been. With our sorrows 
and our buried dead, how good it was to be there, and see 
no confusion or disturbance in the dear old homestead. 
Again and again, Genevra would say, How wise, and 
tender was our dear father ! What would my soul suffer 
in any attitude but this, now when I am so stricken, and 
fatherless and motherless? It is an unspeakable consola- 
tion to feel, that the home of our father and mother is all 
as they left it, and all mine, until our bleeding hearts 


164 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


have time to heal, and grow calm again. Dear brother 
Israel, she said, how can I be grateful enough to God, and 
my dear earthly father, for the tenderness of this provis- 
ion — this mercy — this sheltering love ? But this year will 
soon be gone, she said, and then, if I live on earth, how 
great will be the changes ! She would sometimes nestle 
her pale face on Mark’s shoulder, or on mine, and say, 
pensively, You will be,good to me when I am homeless — I 
know you will. Gentle, sweet sister! It was beautiful, 
in her sadness, to see her devotedness to those around her. 
She was as kind to Norah, as if Norah had never been 
cruel and injurious, to us, and to our dear mother. She 
was as patient with Norah’s children, as if they were 
lovely. Their faults seemed to fill her with tender solici- 
tude, and she left nothing undone, that would help them 
to attain to possible excellence. Their mother was not 
half so vigilant and faithful to them as Genevra was. 
Poor Norah had grown to be as much a Wolverton as she 
was an Arlington. “So much a long communion tends 
to make us what we are.” 

Sweetly, and calmly, we all lived on in the dear parental 
home. The seasons came and went, in that sad year, as if 
there had been no graves in the earth, and no motherless 
hearts above them. We, the bereft ones, devoted our- 
selves to each other, and to the sad old home, that it 
might be all a fitting monument to the dear ones departed. 
Every shrub and flower, that our mother had planted, 
seemed sacred to us. All the paths about the yard and 
gardens seemed consecrated ground, because her feet had 
so often traced them. Priceless, own mother! How diffi- 
cult it was to realize, that she could never walk beside us 
in those paths again — never again speak to us there. But 
it was sweet even to grieve, for the parents who had been 
so good and true in living, and so serene in dying. 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


1G5 


There was much in our lessons of life to make us sub- 
missive. Job received both good and evil as from the 
hand of the Lord, and why should not we? Surely He 
was very good when he gave us lovely parents — good when 
he spared them to us so long — and good beyond expres- 
sion, when he gave them his Redeeming Love. For the 
glorious hope of their perfect life on high, I would adore 
Him forever ; and bow to all the sorrows he may permit 
to me, or send, in his unsearchable wisdom. Annettie, 
his face grew almost divine while thus he talked of his 
buried dead. Dear doctor, he continued, this world con- 
tains no wealth so rich and rare as the parentage, and the 
home influence I carry in my heart, and soul, and mind. 
I would not exchange these priceless realities, for all the 
diadems and pleasures of common royalty. We talked of 
these peculiar blessings, Annettie ; and then, my dear 
Israel looked sad again, and said : There is one thing 
about my mother, that I ought to have told you long ago. 
You will remember, dear doctor, that one of my early 
afflictions grew out of the strange fact that ray mother did 
not really love me. A few weeks after my return from 
Mexico, she drew her chair very close to mine, one rainy 
day, and took my hand in hers. Then, with a sad, calm 
look, she said, Israel, my child, you used to say and feel 
that I did not love yon as well as the others of my chil- 
dren. It grieved me to see that the thought afflicted you, 
but I never realized how just you were in that belief, and 
how generous and tender you had been until you had gone 
to the Mexican war. Then, while we trembled with solici- 
tude about you, my eyes seemed to open, and see how 
3trangely my heart had neglected to love you. I could 
see that it was all as you had said, and that it was cruel. 
It must have proceeded from the busy occupation of my 
thoughts and hands, with those that were older, and those 


166 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


that were younger than you, but it was sinful to let any 
thing cause such bewilderment in a mother’s heart and life. 
How cruel it was, so to afflict the heart and mind of a lov- 
ing and dutiful child. You can never kuow, my dear 
boy, how contrite it made me to be. Certainly I became a 
new creature. It kept me close at the feet of my Re- 
deemer, all the time you were in peril. I promised the 
Lord, if He would bring you home alive, I would do all 
that could be done, by my human powers, to make amends 
to His offended laws of love, and life, and justice. 

I pined to speak to you, and bless you, for loving me so 
persistently and well. I would have given whole years of 
life for the privilege of saying what I have just now said 
to you, and asking you to forgive your own mother for all 
the pain and sorrow she inflicted on your young heart. I 
do not deserve to possess a child so nobie as you have 
always been, my dear Israel. It is wonderful to know how 
merciful and kind the Lord has been to me. It must be 
that He greatly loves “ a broken and a contrite heart,” for 
that is the only merit to be found in me. Tears were in the 
glorious eyes of my poor Israel, at this part of his narration, 
so they were in mine, Annettie, but we talked on, and he 
said, only in the land of light, can you ever know, my 
dear doctor, how all my nature was moved and melted by 
those words of my mother. There was no word spoken 
when she grew silent in her tears, for we were all weeping, 
except my father. It was a cross to me, that my mother 
should so suffer on my account, yet it made me thankful, 
for I believed that God would love her better, after she 
confessed her strange fault, and tried to make amends, 
even to her own child, who had always forgiven her, and 
loved her intensely. 

I felt anew, that there is a canceling power, in contri- 
tion, and restitution for wrong, which God alone could 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


167 


have instituted. The sky of my life grew clearer, and my 
heart felt a joy it had never known before. In our tran- 
quil home, and in the tents of war, I had pined for my 
mother’s love, and felt that she wronged me, but now, that 
cloud was gone, and my spirit felt a blessed repose, as if 
resting in the arms of angels. And my joy was not a self- 
ish feeling, for its sweetest thrill belonged to the thought 
that my mother had turned more fully to the light, and 
was walking more safely in the precepts of the Lord. I 
had prayed for this, from the time of my suffering child- 
hood, until the day she sat close beside me and took away 
with contrite words, the sorrow she had inflicted. My sis- 
ter Genevra felt all these things as much as I did. Long 
after our sweet mother died, she would sometimes speak 
about it. Once she said, what a strauge, satanic wrong 
that was, about mother’s not loving you, brother Israel, 
and how nobly you suffered. It made me love you better, 
even in our childhood. 

May I tell you, dear doctor, said Israel, that it comforts 
me now to think that the powers of evil could not hinder 
me from loving my mother with a perfect love ? 

If it were possible, Annettie, I would tell you all he 
says ; it is so sweet to me, as he tells it with his harp-like 
voice. But I am no giant, as you know, dear sister, and 
my pen grows weary ; so, good-night to you, and to all 
created things — even the stars that shine and sing so glo- 
riously above us. 

May the angels watch over all whom I love, to-night, for 
Jesus’ sake — for Jesus’ sake ! 

Very truly I remain your own 

Walter Verily. 


163 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


LETTER XXIII. 

Dear Annettie — Israel has told me much about that 
first summer in the motherless home of the dear Arling- 
tons. Then he told me how the autumn came and went 
with all its lights, and shades, and memories. Then he 
said, when the winter came, Mark surprised us by saying 
he would be married in a few weeks, to Miss Myrah Loyd, 
a young lady in our county, whom we all knew, slightly, 
and liked tolerably well, but could not admire. Her good 
father had spent much of his hard-earned money for her 
education, yet she was a poor scholar, and cared more for 
dress than for all the knowledge and cultivation in the 
world. Nevertheless, she was admired by some of Marks’ 
good friends, and he was unwise enough to love her. He 
told me there were other ladies he admired much more 
than he did Myrah Loyd, yet he loved her more than any 
other girl he knew. Said he did not wish to love her, and 
could not give a reason for the feeling she had iuspired, 
yet he loved her. He tried to believe there was not very 
much difference in people, who were raised in a Christian 
community. And then, said he, Mr. Loyd is such a good 
man, that his daughter ought to be a prize. Poor Mark ! 
He was credulous, as our dear father had said, and could 
not fear that any lady with a fair face might really be 
unlovely. 

Genevra was distressed when Mark told us who he loved, 
and that the day of his wedding was really appointed. 
She was silent, tho’ ; for it was too late to persuade him to 
be wiser in an affair so momentous. She asked him to 
bring the bride to his parental home, and spend the winter 
with us, as Robert and Alfred had done. I went with him 
to his wedding ; and brought our dear Mark home, a mar- 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


169 


ried man. He was so good and sensible, that we hoped 
the best for his future happiness. 

My rah seemed amiable and affectionate : but she had no 
cultivation of mind, and no skill in domestic works, or in 
economy. She was happy and pleasant, when there was 
nothing for her to do, or to endure. 

When the time came for us to divide the parental estate 
Mark took possession of the dear old homestead. He could 
do this, if Norah would take a part of the land for her 
portion — and if the rest of us would wait, and give him 
time to pay us our part of the estate. We were all anx- 
ious for Mark to remain in that place. It would be good 
for him ; and we could not willingly see the home we loved, 
go into stranger hands. We were glad it was possible for 
one of our own family to possess and enjoy it. Genevra 
was the first to propose the arrangement by which all this 
could be done ; and there was not a dissenting voice in the 
family. 

Norah could live in the dear old walnut house, until her 
sons built one for her on her own acres. Robert and Alfred 
could wait for their portions — Genevra and I were the only 
homeless children of our family, and obliged to have a 
part of our patrimony. Dear Mark was not slow to tell 
us both, that we must always feel as much at home there, 
as we had ever felt — that it would seem a strange place 
to him, without sister Genevra, and brother Israel. 

When the affairs of our home were all settled ; and 
Mark and Myrah were the legal possessors of the home- 
stead, Genevra said she would go to visit Robert and 
.Nonie if I could go with her. There was nothing so im- 
portant to attend to, in all our earthly duties, as the health 
of Genevra. We all believed that traveling and recrea- 
tion would invigorate her existence, and change the sad 
tenor of her heart and mind. We were all glad she 


170 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


wished to go ; and I made the journey as pleasant and 
comfortable to her, as traveling can ever be. To a fastidi- 
ous and delicate person, there are many crosses and annoy- 
ances in traveling, yet my sister endured them well ; and 
often expressed great pleasure in the speed and safety of 
railroads. She had never seen the prairies before; and 
everything she said about them was beautiful. Qhe said 
they reminded her of the sea. Tho’ she never saw the 
ocean, she felt there must be an aspect, something like it, 
in the treeless expanse of land under the bent blue sky. 
The undulations in the surface of a prairie, she called 
petrified waves of the sea. My brother Robert’s home 
was in a sort of green island, a beautiful woodland, with 
far-reaching, rolling prairies, round it in every direction. 
Genevra greatly enjoyed this new peculiar scenery ; and 
never ceased to be thankful, that Robert and Nonie had 
found a place so full of native loveliness and value. The 
^ground was high and healthy, and all their plantings had 
prospered, until their home was really a paradise, as Robert 
had said it should be. Fruits enriched it — flowers adorned 
it ; and the order, taste, and comfort, that pervaded it, in 
doors and out, gave it a charm that was almost heavenly. 
They were still living in their log rooms, white-washed 
inside and outside ; and they had plenty of them, just as 
Robert told father he would have. He and Nonie really 
liked their log labyrinth, as Nonie called it ; and building 
is a trouble to be .deferred when people have a house they 
like to live in. Robert and Nonie have a genius for beau- 
tiful living ; and it is wonderful to know what enchant- 
ment they can give to that plain unworldly home. A 
painter, a poet, a sage, a divine, might love to linger there, 
and gather beautiful realities to eurich them for all their 
days to come. 

Robert and Nonie are blest with worldly goods, because 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


171 


they are diligent, and prayerful, and wise ; and it is all 
adorned with goodness, and religious cultivation. I do 
not know a more elegant and intelligent pair of human 
beings than Robert and Nonie Arlington, tho’ they be 
hidden away from the rushing world, and busy with the 
duties of a rural home in the far west. Their children are 
not like other children, because they are more wisely cared 
for than any I have ever seen, except Mrs. Barns’ children. 
Robert said, if prayers, and parental faithfulness can avail 
for human safety, he hopes so to occupy the hearts and 
minds of his children with the good and the true, that 
there will be no time or place for the powers of evil to en- 
ter their souls and bewilder their lives. Let others do as 
they will, said he, we will make the training of our chil- 
dren the great work and duty of our lives. And certainly, 
said Israel, they are not faithful in vain, for I never have 
seen children so intelligently good, and happy, and useful. 
They visit sometimes, but seldom ever go without their 
parents. Robert attaches great importance to early habits 
and associations. Love of home, and regular domestic 
duties, he says, are quite as important to children as to 
older persons, and certainly this is more than true. 

Genevra and I remained with Robert and Nouie during 
the entire autumn. When Genevra spoke of going home 
they were troubled and said, she belonged as much to them 
as to any other people ; that their home was her home, 
and they had hoped she would feel like remaining there a 
long, long time. Poor sister! there was a great conflict 
in her deep heart, but the power of “ old association ” 
triumphed. It is sweet, she said, to have a home with you, 
and sweeter still to have a brother and sister so lovely and 
true. It is hard to part with you and your darlings, but 
I must go back to the home of our childhood, and the 
graves of our belpved dead. The West, she said, is very 


172 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


beautiful, and God was very good when he made the wide, 
rich fields of prairie, all ready for the ploughing and plant- 
ing of industrious men. I am glad my eyes have seen the 
gl >ry and the beauty of this fair land, hut the stately 
forests of my native land are dearer to me. The homes 
and fields that were made by sweeping away the grand old 
trees seem to me all monuments of heroic toil and manly 
courage. That, said she, is the land where I must live and 
die. Genevra would throw her arms round Robert when- 
ever they talked of parting, as if she would like to carry 
him with her in all the days to come. It is hard for us to 
part, she said, but I must go to the place where our father 
and grandfather lived and died — the place where our sweet 
mother is buried with her folded hands. And besides all 
this, she one day said, Mark is there — dear, honest, earnest, 
confiding Mark. He is my brother, and may sometimes 
need me. His wife is not like Nonie — not in the least — for 
Nonie is almost equal to an host of angels. Here Israel 
paused, and sighed, and then went on to say, My brother 
Robert and our sister Genevra would never have finished 
their interesting converse on a thousand subjects; and they 
could never have felt willing to part ; yet they did part, 
and we did leave that Eden home, with all its wealth of 
hearts, and minds, and happiness. But the bonds of love 
that cannot be broken were only consecrated and hallowed 
by the tears of separation. We are not parted forever. 
The last hymn, of adoration, and the last prayers we offered 
up in the sanctuary of my brother’s home, live on in mem- 
ory, and bind us all together with realities that are spiritual 
and eternal. We shall meet again, and dwell forever iu 
the home of God, 

It was wiutery cold when we reached our beloved home- 
stead, but dear Mark made every thing warm and sweet 
with his greeting and his good fires. He told Genevra he 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


173 


had felt as if something was lost ever since she left home, 
but he was glad she had been to see brother Robert. He 
enjoyed our recital of all we had seen and felt, — said it 
was almost like visiting Robert and Nonie himself. 

Myrah was silent, as if she could not understand the 
interest her husband felt in a brother who had lived so far 
away for years. She was busy, however, and we felt no 
distrust of her kindness. For the sake of our dear Mark 
we hoped all things good for Myrah. 

Is it not beautiful, Annettie, to see how intensely and 
incessantly the heart and mind of my dear Israel has 
always been occupied with his father’s family? He lives 
more in the joys, and hopes, and sorrows, of his brothers 
and sisters, than most of men do in their own. He is 
sensitive as a woman, yet no suffering seems to take away 
his ability to enjoy the mercies that are given from on 
high. Gentle, and tender, and strong, and true, is my 
chosen friend, Israel Arlington. Perhaps he has really 
lived and really loved more, in his short life, than many 
others do who live through four-score years of common 
life. Pray for us, dear sister, and ask that he may be 
spared to me for many days, and weeks, and months. With 
a love that cannot end, I am still, 

Your brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XXIV. 

Dear Annettie — My uncommon friend resumed his 
narrative yesterday by saying, It was only a week after 
our return to Mark, when Myrah began to be unkind to 
Genevra. She would speak to her very rudely, and then 
require her to work in various ways, which more than ex- 
hausted her time and strength. Poor Genevra was patient, 


174 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


and did what she could, but Myrah was never quite satis- 
fied. She had no consideration for Genevra’s fragile na- 
ture, or the weariness she felt from our long journey. It 
really required much resting and time to recover her from 
that weariness. But Myrah said, if she was strong enough 
to travel, she could work. At first, she was careful not to 
say such things when Mark was near, but before the win- 
ter was over, she would scold Genevra before Mark, or 
any other person, if it suited her mood. Few things have 
ever been so painful to me as the look of distress and 
humiliation that came over Mark, whenever Myrah assailed 
Genevra in his presence. He would be silent, and so was 
I ; but it was not possible for me to respect a woman who 
could inflict such feelings on her husband a second time. 

I am sure that Mark reproved her when they were alone, 
yet it seemed to have no influence over her. It was diffi- 
cult for me to be silent sometimes, Myrah’s inhumanity 
was so revolting to my nature. But I was not willing to 
distress Mark, and I was not willing to deepen the discord 
in that hallowed home, where my gentle father and mother 
had lived and died. 

Genevra told me she could endure to live with Myrah 
for a time, for the sake of being with Mark, and in the 
dear old home. Then, said she, brother Israel, when my 
spirit faints under the oppressive rod that is over me, I 
will go quietly out and live in some other place. 

During that winter, I studied the character of poor 
Myrah. I wanted to be as generous and just to her as 
possible ; and it seemed a sort of religious duty, to analyze 
her nature and motives. By noticing her own words, it 
was easy to learn that she desired above all things to be 
rich. She really worshiped mammon, tho’ she professed 
to be a Christian, and felt herself to be safe, as she was in 
the pales of the church. In the next place, she was 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


175 


greatly elated by the idea of being married to Mark Arling- 
ton, and living in his father’s much admired homestead. 
It seemed to give her wonderful ideas of her own merit, 
and fill her with disdain for every one who was not like 
her, or did not serve some of her worldly purposes. She 
loved Mark, with some sort of affection, because he was 
her slave, and because other people admired him ; but she 
had no idea of his heart, or mind, or attainments. Fam- 
ily bonds, and fraternal affection, she could ridicule and 
despise, if they did not entirely suit her mood or her 
interest. She could taunt and ridicule Genevra for wish- 
ing to be with her brothers, and said she had no more 
right to trouble them than she had to trouble other people. 
When Genevra invited friends to visit her, My rah told 
her, soon after, that she had no right to invite visitors to 
that home. This is your brother’s house, said she ; and 
your brother is no more to you than other people are. 
Poor Mark heard her say it, and he looked like a man 
condemned. He was silent as the soul of despair, so was 
Genevra, so was I. It seemed useless to talk to a woman 
so cold, and dark, and dead to the common humanities of 
life, and to the dignity and happiness of her husband. 
Mark ought not to have been silent. It was due to him- 
self, as a man and a husband, to reprove such wrong when 
it was uttered ; but the distress inflicted by Myrah seemed 
to bewilder him. He told Genevra, soon after this, that 
he had hoped to have her with him the most of her life, 
and treat her with the same sort of tenderness that father 
had always manifested for her, but it seemed as if he 
could not have that pleasure. Poor sister ! She suffered 
more on Mark’s account than for herself. For his sake, 
she was constantly kind to Myrah, trying more and more 
to please her, and in every way she could, to help her. 
But Myrah was adamant. She would find as much fault 


176 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


when Genevra did exactly what she told her to do, as at 
any other time. It was not possible to please her. 

Certainly, my dear doctor, it is strange what a respecta- 
ble person can inflict on others, when she is a tyrant and 
cruel. No amount of patience, and innocence, and good- 
ness, can save from her tormenting ways and words. The 
spirit that instituted the inquisition and the guillotine, still 
goes about the world to devour. He hates every good 
thing, and he knows who will help him to persecute the 
children of God, and hinder the good that they alone have 
the power to do. 

Poor Myrah could not do anything very well, and hid 
no just idea of any real domestic excellence. She still 
cared very much about style, and yet, how perverse she 
was, even about that. She said Genevra was entirely too 
stylish : for an old maid ought not to care how she is 
dressed ; and all her time and money ought to be devoted 
to the people that take care of her. She would often ridi- 
cule Genevra for being at all times womanly and tidy in 
her appearance. If there had been any lull in this strange 
tide of persecutions, it would have been more endurable, 
but there was no soft word for Genevra on Myrah’s lips. 
She could hear of death among her best friends, aud in an 
hour after, say cruel things to my pale sad sister. Such, 
Dr. Verily, is the wife of my good and manly brother 
Mark. 

By the time spring began to unfold her roses, Genevra 
was almost consumed by the torture she had tried to endure. 
She told Mark and me, that she wished to pay a visit to 
Alfred, 4 and spend the summer on the lake shore. After 
that, said she, if I live on, it will suit me to board in some 
nice, religious family, as close to Mark and the old home- 
stead as possible. Then she said, if it is practicable, 
brother Israel, for you to stay with me, or very near me, 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


177 


as long as I live, it will greatly bless and console me. We 
all wept when those wise sad words were spoken, by one 
who never had known a selfish or unsisterly feeling. Poor 
Mark ! how his deep great heart did ache and bleed I He 
blessed and thanked Genevra, for her long-suffering pati- 
ence and goodness in his home ; and begged her to call it 
her own home so long as she lived. I cannot blame you 
for leaving it, he said, yet while it is my home it is yours. 
Exile and absence cannot lessen your sacred claims to 
brotherly love and brotherly kindness. As for me, my 
dear doctor, nothing could have been more pleasant, than 
to hear Genevra say, she wanted to go somewhere, away 
from My rah. I told her she could go at any time she 
wished to appoint ; and I would go with her, and stay with 
her — she could come back whenever it suited her, and 
select her own boarding place in our community ; and after 
that, my work and my abiding place, should all be suited 
to her taste and wishes. Mark and I believed that Gene* 
vra could only live a few years longer ; and we would not 
leave anything undone that could help her weariness or 
sadness. Then, for once in my life, it seemed to me I 
ought to have a home of my own with a good, sweet wife, 
in order to make a fitting place for my sister. When a 
woman is fatherless, and motherless, and homeless, noth- 
ing can console her like a brother, whose home is filled 
with gentle influences and affections. Be it ever so hum- 
ble, her heart can feel repose and comfort there, that can- 
not be bought, nor found in any other place. God, who 
created us in wisdom and in love, has made this a law of 
human nature. Perhaps all that my sister suffered, was in 
the Divine mind, when He said in His Holy word, “ a 
brother is born for adversity.” 

In the sweet time of May, Genevra and I parted from 
Mark, and our buried dead, to go and visit Alfred, and 
12 


178 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


other relatives in Ohio. It was all new and delightful to 
both of us. Alfred’s handsome home was in sight of the 
wide water ; and the novelty and beauty seemed to enchant 
Genevra. She grew bright and playful at times, as if all 
her sorrows were overcome ; and as if Alfred had never 
grieved her. His manner was more tender and natural to 
both of us, than it had ever been, since his second vaca- 
tion from the university. 

How sweet it was to rest from pain and solicitude, and 
feel that the brother I had loved so well, might be return- 
ing to himself and to us, in heart and in mind. Even 
Dollie had grown almost sisterly in her words and ways. 
This was the way it seemed for several weeks ; and then 
there came a change. Dollie began to be cold and unkind 
to Genevra. After it continued to deepen and oppress, 
Genevra asked Dollie if either of us had offended her. 
She said no ; we had not offended her particularly, but she 
never had liked either of us, and did not like to have us 
in her house, as we were uot her style of people, and then, 
said she, it is very mean for you to come and live so long 
on your poor brother, who works so hard for, his family. 
Surely he never invited you to come ; and if he did I do 
not thank him for it. Indeed, it is not possible for me to 
endure such beggarly people in my beautiful house. She 
said it had suited her to be polite to us for a while ; but 
she was tired being civil to people who were so useless. 
Old maids and old bachelors are always disagreeable to me — 
in fact I hate them, whether it suits you or not to hear me 
tell the truth. 

After those terrible words from Dollie, Genevra looked 
sadder and paler, but she did not speak of her distress, 
even to me, for she could not believe that Dollie would 
continue to feel and think so strangely. Passionate people 
are apt to be capricious, and she believed that Dollie had 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


179 


more reason and self-respect than to continue in such a 
state of mind, unless there was more to provoke her. She 
believed, too, that Alfred would influence Dollie to be more 
reasonable and kind. At any rate, my gentle sister believed 
it to be wise and right “ to suffer and be still,” while there 
was a hope that it might lead to peace and concord in her 
brother’s home. We had always been taught that family 
discord was degrading and disgraceful, as well as torment- 
ing, and she was silent, and sad, and prayerful under the 
dark cloud that was over her. But it is vain to hope for 
justice and reason from a person like Dollie. She knows 
no law but her own will, and that is guided mostly by 
pride and passion. Like My rah, she counted the value of 
every thing in dollars and cents ; and like Myrah, she did 
not wish to have any one in her house many days who was 
not profitable to her in a worldly way. Genevra was a 
useful person, but she could not please Dollie in any thing. 
She called her useless very often, and did not scruple to 
say she hated her, for her gentle ways, and her sad face. 
Poor Genevra had really been sad and weary ever since 
our father died ; so oppressive is the influence of sorrow 
to one who is fragile and sensitive. But all this was noth- 
ing to Dollie, and she was only enraged by Gfnevra’s 
patience and silence. She did not hesitate to insult and 
revile her every time she saw her face. Even at the table, 
and in the presence of strangers, she would take pains to 
say something unkind. 

Of course it did not take me long to determine to put 
an end to all that misery. I sought an interview with 
Alfred, and told him we had come to visit him because 
affection prompted it, and we intended to spend the entire 
summer, because Genevra’s health required it ; that Dol- 
lie’s manner had made it our duty to leave his house, and 
I would not do so without telling him why we did it. He 


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LIVING AND LOVING. 


was silent for a moment, and then said, coldly, it would be 
best for us to go. He said no word of regret, or tender- 
ness, or hope. It is fearful, said Israel, to know what a 
man may arrive at, when once he begins to violate the 
gentle rectitudes of common life. I have reason to believe 
that God has left my brother Alfred to the devices of his 
own heart ever since the day he sternly refused to give up 
his trip of pleasure and attend to the health of Genevra. 

The next morning after I told him we must leave his 
house, he came into the room where I was fastening the 
straps of Genevra’s trunk, and a dark cloud was on his 
expressive face. He turned to Genevra, and reproached 
her terribly for being disagreeable to Dollie, and then 
staying so long in his house, when she knew that Dollie 
did not like her. He told her that there were places 
enough in the world for her besides his home; told her 
she was spiritless, and willful, and disagreeable to live 
with — that she could have made Dollie love her long ago, 
if she had tried ; told her that her father never had 
scolded her as he ought; and after saying all this and 
more, he told her he would be gentle, and not say half that 
he could say to her. It is true, said he, that you have 
always been good to me ; but that gives you no claim to 
my kindness, unless it suits me to be kind to you — I have 
other duties more important than a man ever owes to a 
sister. Then he told Genevra, he wanted her to go away 
from that part of the world, and stay away. At this 
point of his terrific discourse, I could be silent no longer, 
tho’ my pale, good sister was almost as calm as marble. 
I drew near to him, and said, calmly and firmly, Alfred 
Arlington, you are mad. There is a sort of insanity that 
is contagious ; and you are its victim, I am sure. And 
now let me tell you something else, poor brother — you 
cannot drive my sister Genevra away from any place but 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


181 


your own house. She shall stay in this community as 
long as she wishes to stay, and return to it whenever it 
suits her to come, for health or for pleasure. She came 
here to spend the summer, and she shall not be disap- 
pointed about that. I will take her to the genial home of 
our cousin Carlottie Bell, and you can come to see us, and 
ask to be forgiven, when you get to be rational and manly 
enough to be contrite. You are a great offender, my 
brother Alfred, in the sight of the Lord, and in my sight ; 
and I grieve to know how bewildered you are. He was 
mute and motionless before my earnest rebuke, as if he 
still felt that I was his own and his elder brother. How I 
grieved over him in that miserable hour, no mortal tongue 
can ever tell. He looked as if he had lived in torment 
for whole days, and I believe he had. I have reason to 
believe that Dollie had striven to make him think that 
Genevra had said and done things to offend her. She was 
ingenious to pervert truth and good, which is worse than 
invented falsehood ; and Alfred believed everything she 
told him. But nothing on earth, true or untrue, could 
justify his words and manner to Genevra. He had known 
her as he did the stars and the sunshine, when they were 
cloudless and clear. 

Here Israel sighed, Annettie, and folded his arras back- 
ward, as if to give his great heart freedom to beat its own 
way, and then said, very sadly, I have stood on battle- 
fields, dear doctor, where men were bleeding and dying in 
hideous heaps, and I suffered ; yet it did not torture me 
like that dark battery of unholy words, showered against 
ray unoffending sister, and all by one who ought to have 
soothed her sorrows and shielded her from distress. Her 
goodness, and sensibility, and sadness, and paleness, all 
seemed nothing to Alfred or to Dollie. The mystery of 
iniquity and the power of Satan is the only solution to a 


182 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


wonder like that. Dr. Alfred Arlington is admired and 
prized as a citizen, a gentleman, a husband, and a father. 
In his profession he is excelling and prosperous. All these 
good things belong of right to my brother Alfred ; yet, to 
me, he is a dishonored man. I could not take his evidence 
in a court of justice — never since I heard him talk to 
Genevra that morning. Any rational Hottentot might 
have looked into her face, and testified more justly for her 
nature and her history. These convictions of my mind 
have never been uttered to any other person, my dear 
doctor — not even to my sister Genevra. I tell it to you 
because it is so much a part of my history, and because 
you are my second self, and will profit by such lessons of 
life and of sorrow. 

Before we left Alfred’s house, Dollie came to Alfred’s 
side, looking very angry. The guilt she felt, helped to 
enrage her ; and O, such an aspect as she wore, at that 
moment I have no power to forget. Her words of hatred 
and anger I will never repeat. But I thought of lady 
Macbeth, and volcanic fires, and shuddered as I never did 
before in any place or peril. The word terrific belongs 
peculiarly to the qualification of her anger. Ever since 
then, when we hear that Dollie is sick, it seems to me there 
is a calm in the universe that never comes at any other 
time. 

And now, my dear doctor, said Israel, you will not blame 
me for being so well satisfied to live and die alone ; and 
you will better apprehend the pleasure I feel, in knowing 
how careful and prayerful you are, about loving. Is it not 
strange, Annettie, how the admonitions multiply to make 
me careful and wise about choosing a wife? Some per- 
sons suffer one way, and some another from the wayward 
and blundering marriages that abound in this world. It 
makes me sad, dear sister, to think how many sorrows of 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


183 


this kind have fallen on the life of my dear Israel. His 
sorrows would be overwhelming, if it were not for the 
sweetness, and brightness, and blessedness, which come 
from the thought of his brother Robert and Nonie. Pray 
often for him, my own sister ; that God and good angels 
may comfort his great deep heart. And pray for me, that 
I may be as wise and fortunate as Robert Arlington, and 
as worthy as my friend Israel. It comforts me more and 
more to think of the power and privilege of prayer, and of 
the ministry of angels. But it is midnight, so adieu, adieu. 
Ever, and forever more, I am 

Your brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XXV. 

Dear Annettie — It has been three days since my good 
historian gave me the next chapter of his beautiful life. 
There is nothing so divine to me in human life, dear sister, 
as suffering affection. Israel Arlington has suffered for 
those he loved all his life, and it pervades his entire being. 
It is in his voice, and face, and aspect ; and so divinely is 
the love and suffering blended, that it adorns the man, 
and makes him almost enchanting to me. When I told 
him I was weary with waiting for his historic words, he 
said : It will please you, dear doctor, to know that Car- 
lottie Bell was just the sort of friend Genevra needed in 
her great distress. If Alfred had died, Genevra could 
not have been more stricken and weary in soul. Tender, 
and wise, and true, is the heart of my cousin Carlottie. 
In our peculiar circumstances it was right to tell her our 
great trouble about Alfred and Dollie, tho’ we would not 
tell the worst of it. Carlottie was not surprised, for Dollie, 
she said, had spoken unkindly and injuriously about Gen- 


184 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


evra to several of her neighbors, but Dollie could not injure 
any one so much as herself, for even her best friends thought 
her unjust and cruel*. Everybody here has been surprised 
that such a man as Dr. Arlington should have loved Dollie 
Stone. But the strangest thing of all, said Carlottie, is 
the power she has over him. 

Poor Dollie, she is colder and darker than ever, since 
her husband has prospered in his profession and stands so 
high in his community. She never expected to occupy a 
position so elevated, and cannot bear it with any sort of 
grace or dignity. It is often distressing to see her inflation, 
and elation, and bewilderment. A fish out of its element 
flounders and pants, and so does Dollie. Some people 
laugh at her, but I often feel like weeping over her blind- 
ness and weakness. Then Carlottie pressed our hands with 
her white fingers, and said tenderly, let it console you, dear 
friends, to remember that Alfred and Dollie can both be 
changed, and walk in newness of life, even on earth. 
Beautiful things are promised to “ him that overcometh ; ” 
let us hope and pray, that before it is too late, there will 
fall on them some ray of light to show them the danger of 
sin, and the beauty of holiness. 

It would not be possible to tell how soothing and help- 
ing it was to be with Carlottie, yet the grief of our hearts 
was intense and unutterable. Poor Genevra ! I thought 
sometimes her great heart would break and send her gentle 
spirit home to everlasting rest. Carlottie was skillful as 
well as tender, and was entirely prepared for good works, 
as well as good words. She ordered the carriage, and said, 
we must take a drive on the lake-side to refresh Genevra 
and give her some appetite for dinner. 

How I wish, dear doctor, that you could kuow Carlottie 
Bell! She is so earnest, and unpretending, and gentle, 
and elegant, with all her goodness, and her attainments. 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


185 


Her father, Mr. Horace Bell, is a cousin to ray father. 
They were educated together from early boyhood, and 
always loved each other. He is living yet ; with a beard 
as white as snow, almost, and long, and soft, and silken. 
I tell him his beard is essentially patrician. He is an 
uncommon man. His goodness, and intellect, and energy, 
are all excelling ; and they combine to make him useful 
and happy, even in old age. Lakeland, his beautiful home, 
is the place he selected and improved, when he first came 
westward with my father. Like my dear father, he 
brought a gentle wife with him, from the land of his 
nativity ; and like my father, he devoted himself to rural 
occupations, and to the joys and duties of his home. This 
home is very near to the city ; and the land which he pur- 
chased long ago, is now very valuable. Carlottie is his 
oldest daughter ; and the rest of his children are all mar- 
ried. She, he says, is never to be given away to any mor- 
tal man. The first morning he looked into her baby-face, 
he said, she must never be married ; and ever since that 
time, he has done all he could, to make her so happy at 
home, that no one could win her from his side. I never 
saw a happier person than Carlottie Bell, and do not think 
it would be possible for her to be unlovely in aspect or in 
feeling. She says that God has mercifully saved her from 
all great afflictions of her own ; and left her free to pour out 
her sympathy for others. She is very fond of flowers and 
children ; especially the children of her brothers and sis- 
ters, and their love for her, seems to give her a sort of angelic 
happiness. She devotes herself to her father and mother 
at all times. Nothing could charm her a moment, from 
any wish they might express — any need they might have 
for her presence. Her father says, she was always thought- 
ful and tender. I could not live without her, he said, and 
only the Creator and Giver of such a treasure, can ever 


186 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


know how priceless she is. It has never been my lot, said 
Israel, to see a lovelier trio, than that which Carlottie 
adorns in the home of her parents. She is a little older 
than I am, yet she looks young and lovely. It is not the 
youngness of youth she wears, but the freshness and bright- 
ness that come out from happiness and goodness. She 
called Genevra and me her brother and sister, and had 
the most inimitable ways of making us feel perfectly at 
home with her. There is no end to the topics she has in 
store, and the simplest thing she talks of, grows into beauty 
and goodness. The sitting room which she likes better 
than any other place for social enjoyment, is a fairy nook, 
and has a beautiful history. I will tell it to you, dear 
doctor, just as Carlottie told it to Genevra and me, while 
we sat beside her in its soft lights and shades. This room, 
said she, was built by my father, close to his own, for his 
sister, Carlottie Bell, who lived and died within its conse- 
crated walls. In her youth she was betrothed to one who 
died. He was gifted and good, and no other person ever 
interested her heart. When her father died, he bequeathed 
her to her brother Horace, as a rich legacy and a sacred 
trust. My father believes, said Carlottie, that God has 
been good to him for her sake. At any rate, she was very 
dear to him, and very lovely. That is the reason he holds 
family prayers in this room, and adorns it with chosen and 
exquisite things. He would not have any but the whitest 
and most etherial curtains for these windows ; and he 
looked whole hours in New York for this beautiful flower- 
strewn carpet. He keeps her harp in that same corner 
where she kept it, and does not permit any other hand to 
sweep its cords. He keeps it draped, as j t ou see it, in 
royal purple, and hangs fresh garlands on it very often. 
I almost believe he loves my mother with a deeper tender- 
ness, whenever she brings him the sweetest and whitest 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


187 


flowers for the mute harp of his sister. All this is not so 
much a fancy, as a feeling, with my dear father, and it 
deepens my love for him. There are people who call it 
folly ; but in truth, it adorns the life and home of my 
noble father. To me, it is very beautiful, so to commem- 
orate the loveliness of ray dear aunt. I have many sweet 
memories of her myself, and love to treasure the lessons 
that she taught me. It is refreshing yet, to think of her 
dewy eyes, and pale brown hair, and all her womanly 
sweet ways, and tones, and talents. 

You can believe, dear doctor, said Israel, that the sum- 
mer glided quickly by, with such friends as ours, tho’ our 
hearts were never free from anguish. Mine was so sad 
that I wished for work, after we left Alfred, and the work 
was easily found. One of my editorial acquaintances 
wished to go away for recreation, and was glad to leave 
me at his intellectual post. The fine library of my cousin 
Horace Bell gave me advantages for selecting choice ex- 
tracts, and I almost enjoyed my new occupation. When 
my patron came home, he was so well pleased with my 
work, that he added a premium to ray salary, and offered 
me a partnership. The important work of editing a news- 
paper, is one I admire and like; but feeling, and taste, 
and duty, all constrained me to return to the place of my 
nativity. 

When we spoke of going home, our friends clamored 
against it — especially those of the Lakeland house. Car- 
lottie and her parents were tenderly eloquent in persuading 
us to stay whole years with them. Cousin Horace said, 
they needed our society, and could not let us go. I told 
him his home was a paradise, and it was sweet to be so 
prized by friends that were genial and dear to us ; but 
the spells of home and native land were too deep in our 
rustic hearts, and we could not stay away. Hear, gentle 


18S 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


friends of Lakeland ! How warm and tender they were 
and are! It is evermore a solace and a balm to think of 
them. Must I tell you, doctor, how sweet it was to see 
their appreciation of my sister Genevra ? Cousin Horace 
was so much pleased with her literary taste and attain- 
ments, that he gave her a number of chosen and beautiful 
books, as a token of his love and approbation. He is a 
generous person, in every sense of that word. The pleas- 
ure of giving, he says, is his peculiar luxury, and never 
has harmed him. 

I told my dear Israel, that he seemed to admire the 
family of his cousin Carlottie much more than he did the 
rest of his kindred in that region. Then he said, They 
are all interesting to me, and I love them all ; but there 
is nothing uncommon about any of the others, except one, 
and she is remarkable only for arrogance and willfulness. 
She is rich, and thinks it a virtue to be so. She is stylish, 
and thinks everybody ought to admire her. Her mother 
was a sister of my father; and Daisy has stayed whole 
winters and summers in our home, before she was married 
to Mr. Timothy Dash. He is rich, and they live luxuri- 
ously. Daisy did not manifest the least tenderness for 
Genevra, when she knew how Dollie had afflicted her — 
tho’ we had been very kind to her in our home, and tho’ 
she then professed to love us all very much. Alas ! how 
strange and true it is, 

“ That men from memory erase 
The benefits of former days.” 

A id thus, my dear doctor, you have a brief sketch of my 
cousin, Daisy Delph, now Mrs. Timothy Dash. A great 
contrast is she, to our gentle and elevated Carlottie Bell. 
Poor Daisy is benighted, tho’ she professes to be a Chris- 
tian — Carlottie is really enlightened, and seems almost 
divine, 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


189 


With her own rich auburn hair, 

And a face almost too fair — 

And a voice ever sweet with love, 

As if sent from the world above. 

We made many pleasant acquaintances in that lake-side 
visit, but the cloud and the anguish inflicted in the house 
of a beloved brother, made it impossible for us to enjoy 
any thing very much. Genevra told me that every thing 
social was painful to her, except the tender companionship 
of Carlottie and her sweet parents. And then she said, 
What would I do without you, brother Israel ? Perhaps 
I would perish in my affliction, if I had not a brother like 
you. Surely God is very good, when he so provides for 
me in a time like this. Poor sister! she walked, and 
talked, and passed through the forms of society like a 
machine. 

The deep anguish seemed to sicken her entire being. 
Carlottie could see it all, and grieved over it as angels did, 
perhaps. But nothing, said she, can make Genevra un- 
lovely. She may die of this great sorrow, and I almost 
believe she will ; yet she will die like the calmest martyrs, 
and look beautiful when she is dead. Her heart is too deep, 
and warm, and true ; and while I grieve over her suffer- 
ings, my soul must admire and love the beauty of her 
nature. Dear, incomparable sister of my father’s house 
and lineage, I will hold her in my heart forever and for. 
ever. That is the way Carlottie would talk to me about 
Genevra when we were leaving Lakeland to return to Mark 
and to our native home. 

The deep distress of my sister was difficult to endure. 
Thorns, and brambles, and cups of bitterness were all 
around her, and inflicted by human hands, without the 
least provocation. It was hard to see her driven from the 
only home on earth that suited her, and where she had 


190 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


rights both human and divine. There was abundance of 
room there, and every thing she liked in the way of taste 
and comfort. The dear parental hands had made it so, 
and she had helped them. All this, and every thing, made 
it intolerable for Genevra Arlington to go out from that 
home while her brother Mark was there. He felt as I did 
about it, and Myrah had never intended to drive Genevra 
from her, but her words and ways were not endurable — 
she spoiled every thing around her. “One sinner destroyeth 
much good,” is a divinely written assertion, and I have 
seen it demonstrated. 

Certainly the time had come for us to place Genevra in 
a peaceful home. She thirsted for peace above all other 
earthly things. We were well acquainted with all the 
homes, and the families in our vicinity, and thought them 
all over, to find a suitable place for her. It was difficult to 
do. The homes are beautiful, and the people who inhabit 
them are worthy ; yet there were innumerable impedi- 
ments to making a home for Genevra away from her own 
kindred. The family where she was most deeply attached, 
by tie3 of taste and friendship, were the least prosperous 
of our neighbors, and had no room to spare. Mrs. Mont- 
vernon was a widow, too, and busy with her own affairs. 
But her children were grown and educated, and Miss 
Brenda Montvernon was Genevra’s most chosen friend. 
From early childhood, they had helped each other to learn 
good things, and to enjoy life. I thought Genevra would 
be happier with them than any other people away from 
home. When I told her so, she grew radiant at the 
thought, and said earnestly, A room, a room, “ my king- 
dom” for a room, in Mrs. Montvernon’s pleasant home. 
They know more about the beauty of life than any family 
I know, except the Barnses, and the Bells, and our dear 
brother Robert. But what can we do about the room, 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


191 


brother Israel ? Then I said, We can make a room, my sis- 
ter. Mrs. Montvernon will consent to that, I am sure ; 
and we will go this very day and ask her. We did go, and 
Brenda was delighted to know that she could have Gen- 
evra in her own home so entirely. Mrs. Montvernon was 
glad to know that a room could be made for Genevra, close 
to her own ; and in six weeks it was all done. We mustered 
the men and the material, and there was not a nicer room 
in all the land than .that which grew up so quickly for my 
sad sister. It was made to suit her taste and comfort, and 
was to her a pleasant retreat from all other places. 

While the last leaves were falling in November, we 
carried Genevra to her sweet new home — her refuge from 
the storm. It was only a mile from our homestead, and 
she was willing for me to stay with Mark, if he would 
promise not to let me work too much. Darling, sweet 
sister ! She watched over us, and we watched over her ; 
but we could not save her from the dying that began that 
morning when Alfred inflicted his strange tornado of 
words. But only Mark and I knew how she suffered. 
The doctors said she was not definitely sick ; yet she 
faded away, as flowers do after a blighting frost. She 
never talked to any one about her sorrows except Brenda, 
and Mark, and me ; and seldom spoke of them to us. 

But I have written you quite enough for one chapter. 
So, good-night, Annettie, with prayers and blessings from 
Your affectionate brother, Walter Yerily. 


LETTER XXVI. 

Dear Annettie — My enchanting friend seems to feel 
a sad, deep pleasure, in talking about his sister Genevra, 
while she faded away. Sometimes she was cheerful and 
bright, and then it seemed as if dark surges of anguish 


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would roll over her heart, in spite of all her faith, and 
hope, and resignation. This he told me in the beginning 
of his next chapter. Then he said : In one of those days 
of dark distress, she sat between Mark and me, while we 
talked of the past and the present of our lives. She spoke 
of her mournful exile from her proper home, and said it 
would not be so curious an affliction, if I had not tried so 
very hard to be kind and patient — if it had not been so 
entirely my nature and my endeavor, to be a gentle and 
faithful sister, through all things. Then, said Israel, we 
tried to qonsole her, and turn her thoughts to brighter 
and holier things, and it was easy to do. She was flexible 
as a good child ; and glad to be reminded of consoling reali- 
ties. She talked of common things with great interest and 
feeling, as long as she lived and spoke to us. 

After she had lived half a year in her Montvernon 
home, she said to me, brother Israel, it is all comfortable 
here, and very consoling. I love Mrs. Montvernon and 
Brenda more and more ; they are so very good and lovely, 
and so sweet to me. Is it not strange that I do not feel at 
home here by this time ? It is not possible for me to feel 
really at home, away from my brothers and the old home- 
stead. Often at night I go there in dreams, and every 
day it seems to me I am visiting here, and will shortly go 
home. That is the way my heart feels. My head under- 
stands how good it is to be here. By this time she was 
too weak to ride on horseback, and we kept a most com- 
fortable buggy for her especial benefit. Either Mark or I 
went every day, to drive her out in the open air, that she 
might feel and breathe refreshment from the universe. 
This was essential to her life, aud nothing hindered us from 
the duty and the mournful pleasure of that drive. We 
knew it would not be our privilege long, to see her living 
face ; and while it lasted we prized it as we ought, I do 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


193 


believe. Sometimes she was pensive and silent in our 
drives — sometimes she was almost radiant with feeling, 
and thoughts of beauty, about something on earth, or 
something in heaven. You, my dear doctor, will enjoy 
her eulogy of Brenda Montvernon, which she expressed to 
me in one of our pleasant drives. 

Brother Israel, she said, do you ever think how great is 
the goodness of the Lord in providing for me such gentle 
friends as the Montvernons ? And do you ever think that 
Brenda is the loveliest and noblest girl that we have ever 
known ? We have always loved and admired her, yet I 
believe we have never fully appreciated her heroic nature. 
People are too slow to estimate grandeur and loveliness of 
human character, when it is demonstrated before them. 
If Brenda’s nature and history were written in a book, and 
we had never known the original, how wonderful and lovely 
she would be to us. Her life, from its earliest morning, 
has been one great struggle with adversity, and yet she 
has always been hopeful and cheerful. Her sorrows have 
been many and great from her childhood, yet she has 
endured them like an angel of love. Our dear father used 
to say, there was no child so patient as his own Genevra, 
but he did not know all about Brenda Montvernon. She 
learned at home as I did, tho’ her father was not a fine 
scholar like our father, and never helped her with her les- 
sons. Her mother taught her the rudiments of education, 
and implanted in her mind a love of learning and an affec- 
tion for books. I had some time to study, but Brenda had 
not. How, or when she studied and read books, is a mys- 
tery, for she was always overtasked with work and anxiety. 
Yet she did learn the choicest things, and has always been 
the most cultivated girl in our circle of educated friends. 
She writes and converses more elegantly than many of the 
daughters of wealth, who have been for years at the best 
13 


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LIVING AND LOVING. 


schools. When she was first grown up to womanhood, she 
bought her own clothes with embroidery for several years, 
and the embroidery was made in the snatches of time, 
when she could neither read nor help her mother in the 
more important works of the household. She has told me 
that her mind was always oppressed with care about her 
brothers and sisters, because her father was poor, and she 
loved them all so very much. I am thankful, she said, 
that we have always had a home of our own, and that we 
gradually grew into more comfortable circumstances. It is 
a great mercy to escape the keen oppressions of poverty. 
Even independent poverty is often oppressive to its chil- 
dren. So said Brenda, and it is true. Yet affection, and 
truth, and industry can make poverty very beautiful. So 
it was with the Montvernons, and yet, Brenda had two 
great sorrows to endure that I have not mentioned to you, 
brother Israel. She was never appreciated in her home, 
especially by her brothers. That is a sorrow that must be 
hard to bear ! The other one is greater still. Her father 
was not a Christian. Ah me! said Brenda, in her con- 
fidingness, how unutterable is this one dark sorrow ! If 
the Father of Mercies has ever been weary of a suppliant, 
it was me, I am sure. My cries have gone up to him 
thousands of times for the salvation of my earthly father. 
When he was dying my lips were close to his ear, whispering 
of Jesus, and saying: Only believe in Him and love Him, 
and he will save you now, my father, even now, for mercy 
is His perfect work. The eyes of my father looked sadly 
up to heaven, and his lips moved, but his words were 
inaudible ; and not ’til the light of eternity is around me 
can I ever know what he said with those dying lips. 

When Brenda told me these things, brother Israel, I 
wept a long time, and* my love for her has been more 
exalted ever since. There is a heavenly sort of pleasure 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


195 


in her society; she is so cultivated — so evangelized — so 
full of tenderness, and truth, and real goodness. 

That, my dear doctor, is the faithful eulogy of Brenda 
Montvernon, from the lips of my appreciative sister. It 
is quite a portrait, is it not? And you must keep it in 
your mental cabinet of rare and valuable specimens of 
human life and human love. I tell you such things with 
peculiar pleasure, because you talk so much about the 
living and loving that ought to be in this beautiful world. 

Perhaps I ought to tell you how Genevra went on to 
say, that Brenda was more devoted to her mother and her 
home, than any one she had ever seen. It seems as if she 
never had taken time to think about marrying. And 
then she said brightly, I wish, brother Israel, that Ran- 
dolph Mainard might feel the power of her great loveli- 
ness, and win her womanly, deep heart for himself. He 
has never loved any lady since Nonie rejected him — no 
one except me, your sister Genevra — and you know how 
unavailing that was. Randolph Mainard is a noble human 
being, and of the twenty gentlemen who have addressed 
me, he is the worthiest and the most interesting. Like 
you, said she, he feels an innate disdain for all iniquity, 
and can render a reason for all his likes and his dislikes. 
If I had been willing to wed myself to any human being, 
it would have been Randolph Mainard. I told him so 
when he addressed me; and told him, also, the reasons 
why I had resolved never to marry any one, after my 
sister Norah was married. He said it was a high resolve, 
and tho’ it afflicted him, he would forever honor and 
revere a pride and a wisdom so unselfish. Then he cov- 
ered his face with his hands, and offered a manly prayer 
for strength to bear his new, great sorrow — and then he 
prayed for me. He asked the Lord to bless me with His 
balmiest blessings, His most sustaining love, and save me 


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LIVING AND LOVING. 


from all evil and sorrow,- for Jesus’ sake. Ever since then 
I have felt for him a sisterly solicitude, and when I am no 
longer on earth, brother Israel, you must keep this among 
your gentle thoughts of Randolph Mainard. Israel paused, 
and then said, I was always glad when Genevra could 
talk with interest about common things. It seemed like 
forgetting her sorrows. She lived on without ever hearing 
a word of contrition, or tenderness, or justice, from Alfred, 
or Dollie, or Myrah. I have reason to believe they all 
grew sterner and more cruel towards her. One day when 
Mark was going to see Genevra, and drive her out, Myrah 
said to him, Mr. Arlington, you waste too much time 
about your sister — she has people enough to take care of 
her, without you. For my part, I hate old maids, no 
matter who they are. People talk about the beautiful 
mind and noble life of Genevra Arlington, but I don’t see 
why they should. She can’t be very smart, or she’d have 
married Randolph Mainard, and be living in a fine home 
of her own, instead of troubling her brothers all the days 
of her life. They have worked for her, and waited on 
her, ever since she was born— that’s all I can see — and it 
seems as if she will never die. Poor Mark could not be 
silent, or felt that he ought not to be, and he said, calmly 
and firmly, and with sadness, Myrah, you distress me. If 
you cannot see the good she has done, it is because you do 
not believe what I have often told you, about her unselfish 
nature, and her life of toil and care. She has thought of 
others with tender solicitude all her life. She has worked 
constantly with her hands, and a very small part of it was 
for herself. She has been a good and faithful sister, and 
I have told you these things more than once, dear wife. 
My sister is sick and sorrowful now, and I cannot dishonor 
my manhood, and afflict my own heart, by neglecting her. 
You ought to weep over me, if I could forget the feelings 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


197 


and duties of a brother. You do not think as you ought, 
Myrah. We have but one short life to live on earth, and 
it is important that we should “do justice and love 
mercy.” Go read your Bible, wife, and learn to quit 
fretting about right things. 

It was almost pleasant, dear doctor, to hear my brother 
vindicate the right, and reprove the wrong, with so much 
skill and dignity. My sympathy and my respect for him 
have been more perfect ever since that day. But I never 
told him so. It is painful to remind him of his unlovely 
wife. 

Now Annettie, what do you think would become of me, 
with such a wife as Mrs. Mark Arlington ? All my aspira- 
tions after earthly good would perish ; all my powers would 
be paralized. Perhaps it would become difficult for me to 
understand even the pulse of a patient. It oppresses me now 
to think of Mark Arlington, and if he were the only man 
with such a wife, it would be less oppressive, but he is only 
one of the many good men, who live and love thus sadly. 
Think of it dear sister, and remember that the world needs 
your prayers as well as I, your brother. Faithfully, and 
with many hopes, 

I remain as ever, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XXVII. 

Dear Annettie — Yesterday I spent the afternoon with 
my friend, in his own comfortable room ; and I asked him 
to tell me the last part of Genevra’s beautiful life. Then 
he said, when she had been a year with Mrs. Montvernon 
it was November again, and my sister seemed to fade as 
did the flowers in the chilly blast. Her decline became 
more alarming, and we could realize that she would soon 


198 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


be numbered among the departed. I gave up every other 
occupation, and spent all my days with her, or near her, 
so that she could feel a brother was at her side, and ready 
to do her slightest wish. Mark and Norah were often with 
her, and she seemed satisfied with every thing in her 
earthly lot, except the memory of Alfred and Dollie. 
Once she took my hand in hers and said : If you were 
buried in the polar sea, brother Israel, with an iceberg for 
your monument, you would not seem so dead to me as 
Alfred seems, tho’ he now walks and talks in his beautiful 
home. She asked me to write, and tell brother Robert, 
how she was hastening to the end of her pilgrimage ; and 
that he must come to see her if he could. I asked her if 
she did not wish to see Alfred. O no, she replied, with a 
look of unutterable anguish — I wish to die serenely, and 
he would help the angel of death to freeze the fountains 
of my ebbing life — he is so cold, so cruel — poor Alfred ! 
He never has loved any of us since he knew Dollie. I do 
not suppose he will pause to think or feel, when you tell 
him I am gone from the earth forever. No, brother Israel, 
do not call him to see me now. No, no ! I love him — I for- 
give him, I pray for him, and hope that he will yet become 
a child of light, and be my brother in the home of Redeem- 
ing love ; but I do not wish to see him now, and, O, how 
strange it is! She rested, and then said : When Dollie 
began to be cruel to me, Carlottie asked me if I was not 
afraid she would turn the heart of Alfred away from me. 
I told her no ; I was not afraid that he could be entirely 
alienated. Then Carlottie said, Dollie will try to pervert 
his mind and heart, and there is reason to fear she can do 
it. She can do anything with Alfred, that satan wishes 
her to do. So said Carlottie, and it is true. Here Israel 
sighed and said, brother Robert was not well enough to 
come and see Genevra before she died, but she did not 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


199 


grieve about that. Her trusting heart seemed to feel 
repose in the thought of Robert. No matter where he is, 
said she, he is safe from all evil ; and I know he loves me 
and prays for me. 

When the flowers were all dead in the outer world, and 
she had communed with the falling leaves, and the dying 
of summer glories, there came a fall of snow ; and I wish 
it were possible, dear doctor, for me to tell you how she 
enjoyed it. I was afraid, she said, that the earth would 
not be white again before my eyes were closed to all the 
beauties of this world. You know, brother Israel, I have 
never been able to tell how I enjoy the whiteness of snow. 
If I could worship any created thing, it would be the 
essential whiteness that snow exhibits. It thrills me as with 
a voice of eloquence; it tells me of God, and heaven, and 
the white raiment that is promised to them that love the 
Redeemer and have kept His commandments on earth. 
Beautiful — beautiful whiteness ! All the days of my life 
it has been a peculiar joy to me. I love to think of the 
mountain summits that are forever white and untroubled. 
They are mine, all mine, because I love them so well, and 
carry them, with so much veneration, in my heart and 
mind. Dear sister, said I, no wonder you love the snowy 
whiteness, for it is really akin to you. Your soul is just 
like it ; and your life has been filled with works, and words, 
and motives, that were whiter than snow. She smiled a 
sad, sweet smile and said, dear brother, I feel that all you 
say of me is true, but God does not see as we see. It will 
not be long before I know the verdict of Him who knows 
me better than I know myself. Pray for me, brother Israel, 
and ask that I may know my own heart, and be saved 
from all delusion, and blindness, and error, before I die — 
ask it for Jesus’ sake. 

I had read the Bible to her, and prayed with her, every 


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LIVING AND LOVING. 


evening but one since she had been at Mrs. Montvernon’s. 
This seemed as essential to her as food. She said her soul 
must be fed as well as her body, and she preferred my 
readings and prayers to those of any other person. After 
prayers, this snowy evening, she talked to Mrs. Montver- 
non and Brenda again, about the goodness of God to her, 
and thanked them again for all their kindness and love to 
her. I was sitting near her, and she took my hand in hers, 
holding it warmly and silently, as if resting, and realizing 
the present and the past, of her life and mine. Then she 
looked into my face, and said earnestly : You are like to 
all glorious things, my brother Israel. Who ever stood in 
the battle of life so bravely, so wisely, so unselfishly ? 
Whiter than snow might well be written on your monu- 
ment. Dearest brother, when I am gone, and you can 
see me no more on earth, let it console you to know, that 
your goodness, and wisdom, and integrity, and love, have 
been solacing and sustaining to me, in all the toils and 
afflictions of my earthly life. Only the Infinite Father 
can know what I would have suffered without your broth- 
erly kindness, and now, when my life is ending, death 
seems less terrible, because you will hold my dying hand, 
and your prayers of faith will help my soul to trust in the 
balmy blessedness of Redeeming Love. Thanks be to God 
for his immeasurable goodness in giving me such a brother, 
and sparing him to me so long. Surely I am not mistaken 
when it seems to me that God has always loved me with a 
peculiar love. I see and feel this love in the tenderness 
and wisdom of my earthly father, when he provided for 
my earthly wants. What would I have done without that 
timely provision ? The six hundred dollars that I have to 
spend in every year, do not make me so comfortable as I 
was, when I worked constantly in ray parental home, and 
spent only forty dollars in a year for myself. Dying 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


201 


fathers and mothers ought to know more about these things 
than they do. It is terrible to be fatherless, and mother- 
less, and homeless, even with six hundred dollars a year to 
live on. I could not have endured it, if you had not been 
near me, brother Israel ; and if Mrs. Montvernon and 
Brenda had not been so loving and kind to me. She 
looked at Brenda, with a smile of unutterable sweetness, 
and said, you are my Very sister in adversity, and in 
heaven these things will be more sacred and beautiful to 
us than they are now. But they are sacred now, and it is 
not very hard to die, with friends like mine to lay me in 
the grave. Why is it that everything seems sweet to me 
when the snow is falling ? God seems to come closer to 
the earth and to me. 

Dear doctor, said Israel, I wish it were possible to define 
to you the sort of pleasure I felt that day, in the sick-room 
of my sister. There was an all-pervading spell of love, 
and truth, and goodness, and faith, that made it seem more 
like heaven than anything of earth that I have ever real- 
ized. The falling snow seemed to attune the soul of 
Genevra to happiness, and to an utterance of thoughts 
and feelings, that accorded with all our hearts at such a 
time. We knew that any hour of her life might be the last 
hour; that any sleep of hers might become dreamless and 
pulseless; yet all she said in that day was full of life, and 
thought, and beauty. Mrs. Montvernon and Brenda felt 
as I did about it. They have told me more than once, 
that no day of life had ever seemed to them so holy and 
so heavenly. For me, it was a day filled with rich reali- 
ties, that can never be taken away, while I have power to 
remember. I knew that my sister was more than safe in 
the arms of Redeeming Love, and I felt satisfied. It had 
been certain to me, that she was a child of light, ever 
since she was seven years old, and that she was prepared 


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for either world ; yet I was never willing to give her up 
until that day. God and heaven never had seemed so 
near to earth, and my spirit never felt so strong and free 
in the sunshine of hope and love. The power of eternal 
truth and peace seemed to come more perfectly into my 
heart, and fill me with resignation and content. Such 
things as these never come down to mortals without the 
presence of God, and the help of angelic ministration. 
The approving, grateful words of my pale sister still seem 
sacred to my heart. All the high plaudits of this world 
could not so certainly assure me that I have not lived in 
vain. It is a blessed thing to feel, that our life-work has 
been wrought in the right place. 

The next morning after the snowfall, the sun came up 
in glory, to radiate the whiteness that surrounded us. 
Mark and Norah had watched over Genevra through the 
night; yet in the morning, she said, it seemed as if mother 
and Paul had been near her all the night long. Father, 
she said, must have been with them, but I did not see him 
in my dreams. Dear father! Perhaps his arms will en- 
fold me tenderly before I reach the gates of pearl. 
Beautiful, beautiful sister! She had changed while she 
slept. She asked me to read the fourteenth chapter of 
John, and sing an anthem, and pray. 

When we had prayed, she called us, one by one, to come 
and kiss her good-by. I was startled, tho’ we had believed 
she might die even sooner. I took her hand in mine, and 
the pulses of life were strange and slow. We are never 
quite ready for a moment like that. The anguish of years 
passed over me in that one moment, and then I grew calm 
and strong. The love of God, and the beauty of yester- 
day came into my mind, and I sat serenely beside the 
dying sister of my soul, and saw her look of light, as the 
spirit parted from the clay, to “ return to God, who gave 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


203 


it.” Beautiful, beautiful heaven ! she said, where there 
are many mansions. Perhaps the dear Redeemer wishes 
for me, to help Him prepare a place for those I love and 
leave on earth. How sweet it is, brother Israel, to feel as 
I do now ! She closed her eyes ; and when her pulse was 
almost still, it started as with a thrill, and her eyes un- 
closed with a look of love, as she said, Alfred, poor 
Alfred ! How cold and dead he is ! — cold, and dead, and 
dark ! — but God can wake him up to life, and light, and 
love. O Father, O Saviour, O Holy Spirit, have mercy on 
my dear brother Alfred ! 

Thus loving, and thus believing, my sister Genevra closed 
her sweet eyes to the things of earth, and waked in a world 
of perfect peace, and perfect love. 

Brenda Montvernon asked the privilege of keeping the 
beloved dust three days; and O, how consoling it was to 
have it so! Here, Annettie, his voice grew deeper and 
softer than ever before, and he said, with the richest pathos, 
No earthly presence is so dear to me as the lifeless face of 
a beloved one — no lips are so eloquent to me as those that 
are mute and cold. Day and night I sat, or stood, or 
knelt beside that lifeless sister; and my spirit has been 
calmer and stronger ever since. When the burial day 
arrived there had been another fall of snow, and every 
tree, and vine, and shrub, was woven into a garland of 
white. Such beauty I have never seen but once before 
that morning. Even the air and sky seemed as if regu- 
lated by angels for the burial day of a child of light — so 
sad, and tender, and serene ! When the pall-bearers started 
to the grave with my sister, the snowflakes fell eagerly 
down for a moment, as if to kiss and consecrate the cold 
casket of her repose. 

I must believe that the angels of light were busy about 
my sister Genevra all the days of her life, and when we 


204 


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laid her in the grave. Beautiful, beautiful sister ! with 
immortality written in her lifeless face, I cannot think of 
her as dead and crumbling to dust! The perfect hands 
and queenly brow are what I see in that grave — the brow 
adorned with wavy, silken tresses, that curl and stray about 
the little white pillow in the coffin. I see the white robe 
of cashmere, and the blond about the throat, and the white 
rosebuds and geranium leaves that adorned my sister’s repose 
and soothed the solemnity of the narrow casket. Brenda 
Montvernon had a few fine exotics, and their best leaves 
and flowers were sent down to darkness and decay with my 
dead darling. 

How true it is, dear doctor, that “ the dead still speak 
to us.” My sister’s perfect trust in God still speaks to me 
with great power. All her tastes and tones of character 
still elevate and refine me; all her known wishes for the 
living, and for me, still actuate me. It is wonderful to 
know, as I do, how much her taste, and goodness, and 
industry achieved. Very little of her time was devoted 
to study, or reading, yet she knew much about books. She 
read Virgil in Latin, and Josephus in Greek ; and loved 
them peculiarly, because they lived so near to the wonder- 
ful days of the glorious Redeemer. One of them lived 
just before the Divine Incarnation, and the other not very 
long after it. And then, she said, Josephus was with Titus 
at the siege of Jerusalem, and witnessed the fulfillment of 
the Saviour’s fearful prophecy concerning its destruction ! 
My sister’s mind was beautifully appreciative ! 

I ought to tell you, doctor, that Genevra had a genius 
for friendship, and a gift of wisdom in selecting friends. 
I would like for you to know how much we enjoyed her 
select friends in our home. They were sure to be culti- 
vated and religious ; and such friends add very greatly to 
the value and beauty of life. But Brenda Montvernon 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


205 


was the rarest, noblest being among them. She grieved 
for my sister as for one greatly beloved, and wore mourn- 
ing for two years, tho’ in that time she was a bride. Now, 
Annettie, is it not beautiful to see the beatings of such a 
heart as that of my dear Israel? Would that all men 
could work as faithfully in their peculiar path of duty ! 
Every thing seems better when I think of him, or of you, 
dear sister. But I must say good-night, and write me as 
ever, Your brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XXVIII. 

Dear Annettie — A few days ago I asked my friend 
Israel to tell me who was so fortunate as to be married to 
Brenda Montvernon. O, said he, with a look of youth 
and pleasure, I wish you to be as much interested in that, 
as if it were a part of my own history. Not many people 
have, been so fortunately married, as my two friends, 
Brenda Montvernon and Randolph Mainard. He paid us 
a visit of sympathy after the death of Genevra, and, as 
was his custom, when in our locality, he called to see Miss 
Montvernon. When he saw her looking so sad, yet so 
serene, she seemed to him as one he had never seen before. 
In a few weeks he came again, and told her that a new 
fountain of tenderness woke up in his heart at that time, 
and grew more and more sacred. He was so fortunate as 
to win her love in return, and it was not long before Brenda 
told me she would soon gather white roses and geranium 
leaves for her own wedding, and when I gather them, said 
she, how they will whisper of Genevra. And then she 
said, how difficult it is to live without her ? We shall never 
see her like again on earth, even if we live to be old. 

And now, my dear doctor, said Israel, I have a new 
thought, and a wish, and they are both about taking you 


206 


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to see Randolph Mainard, and Brenda, his excelling wife. 
It will only take a few hours to go, said he, and you shall 
see all ray beautiful native land, and the homes of which 
I have told you. You shall see Mr.' and Mrs. Barns for 
yourself ; and then we will go to see my brother Mark, 
and our dear old homestead. I must go, at any rate, before 
I die. I told him that we would go, Annettie, tho’ it was 
almost wrong for me to leave my professional post of duty. 
I knew he ought to go because his religious heart was 
leading him. I knew his life was uncertain — a little un- 
genial air or weariness might hasten his departure from 
earth, and I felt like watching over him, and being near 
him. I wished, too, to make him happy, and told him 
we would go just when it suited him to do so. We did go, 
Annettie, and it would make a folio if I should tell you all 
that was interesting and beautiful in that visit of a few 
days. Every place and every person seemed to me just 
as Israel had pictured them with his words. Such places 
and such people may not often be found in the confines of 
this world, and yet, it all appeared singularly natural, and 
simple, and attainable. Randolph Mainard and his excell- 
ing wife, Mrs. Brenda, would bless and adorn any place. 
A palace or a cottage were all the same to them ; they 
would be good, and great, and happy, where ever they 
might be. They greeted Israel as if he had been a brother, 
and when I was introduced as his particular friend, their 
cordiality was charming. It was so fraught with the feel- 
ing of adoption, that I felt they were both friends and 
kindred to me. It was lovely to see their affection for 
Israel. Once I was conversing with Mr. Mainard about 
his health, and we spoke of his loveliness and worth. Mr. 
Mainard said, he thought people could be known by their 
likes and dislikes, and a man who could know Israel 
Arlington and not love him, would be “fit for treason,” or 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


207 


any other diabolic work. His approval of Israel seemed 
to know no measure or bound, and he went on to say : 
I was with him in the army more than a year, and 
know him quite as well as his brothers know him. I 
am sure, Dr. Verily, said he, there is no statelier human 
nature than that of Israel Arlington. The powers of 
evil might as well try to tempt the ocean, or the fixed 
stars, as to tempt Israel Arlington from the path of recti- 
tude. The stars are not higher than his mind — the ocean 
is not deeper than his heart. I have never known a per- 
son with such intense affection for God, and all that is true 
and good. I have never known a person with such intense 
aversion to all evil, and such loathing of all iniquity, and 
yet, he pities the wayward and sinning ones, with angelic 
compassion and sorrow — his sympathies are almost God- 
like. He is a most uncommon person, I can assure you, 
and his family are uncommon. His father was almost a 
poor man, pecuniarily ; yet his children are the most thor- 
oughly educated and cultivated persons who have grown 
up in our rich community. Their home was more like 
paradise than any place I have ever seen. They have 
been a blessing in their locality. Every thing they ever 
said or did had an elevating tendency. They have demon- 
strated that religious integrity, and industry, and affection 
can make a world of wealth and beauty at home, better 
than all the things that gold can ever buy. I know much 
about their history, Doctor Verily, and it is all beautiful. 
When Israel was a boy, and all his life, indeed, he carried 
his book to the field with him. He read when his horses 
rested, if he felt like it, and digested what he read when 
following the plough. He told me he had read many 
valuable books in that way, and enjoyed them exceedingly. 
Many of his lessons were studied in that way, especially the 
Greek, and Latin, and Hebrew, that his father taught him. 


268 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


Now, Annettie, you can see that I am not the only man 
who is in love with Israel Arlington. I need not tell you 
that Mr. Mainard’s enthusiasm delighted me. He is a 
cultivated, religious gentleman, and his verdict in any 
case would be valuable. His understanding is clear and 
quick. Beautiful indeed to me was his earnest admiration 
of my dear Israel. 

But I must tell you how charming the Barnses are, with 
their sweet simplicity, and perfect goodness, and their 
beautiful locks of gray. There is a sweet halo about them, 
that is not like anything I have ever seen before. It 
would not be possible to forget them. 

Mr. Mainard, and Mrs. Brenda, went with us down to 
the Mapleton homestead. They, too, wished to visit Mark 
Arlington, and Mrs. Montvernon. Our drive was over 
one of those smooth, macadamized roqds, so common in 
our goodly State. There are lands and homes of great 
variety to be seen on every side. The hovel and the 
stately mansion are sometimes not far apart ; and the un- 
troubled forest grows on, close to fields and meadows, 
where the tall trees have been swept away. Our journey 
of twenty miles was too soon over, and yet we were glad 
to arrive at the Mapleton home so early in the morning. 
It was beautiful to see Mark Arlington greet his brother 
and his friends. It thrills me now, Annettie, to recall the 
warm grasp of his hand, when Israel introduced him to 
me. I know you, Dr. Verily, he said, and am happy to 
see you. I bear a part in all that gives pleasure to my 
brother — and his friends are mine ; please to remember 
this, and be at home in my house. Do not you. think him 
warm and sweet, Annettie? If you had seen him, and 
heard his accents, you would never forget him. His voice 
is not musical like Israel’s, yet it is deep and impressive. 
He is not so original and imperial as Randolph Mainard, 


LIVING AND LOVING ; 


1 209 

yet he is quite as manly and intelligent. We walked 
about the old home part of that day, with a sad sort of 
pleasure. I believed it to be the last time my dear Israel 
would ever visit the home of his heart, and it was a pain- 
ful thought to me. He led me to all the chosen trees, and 
walks, and corners, and clusters of beauty, about the 
grounds; and then to the graves of his beloved dead. 
When we had stood there a little while, he asked me to 
leave him alone, with God and the graves he loved ; and 
so I did, Annettie. 

The next day we drove all over the fields and woodlands 
of Israel’s home ; and then we visited Mrs. Montvernon, 
and spent a few hours with her and Mrs. Brenda in Gen- 
evra’s sweet room. She gave it to them before she died, 
and they made a parlor of it. They often call it Gen- 
evra’s room, and seem to love it peculiarly. Mrs. Mont- 
vernon told me that the same lace curtains were over the 
windows, as they were when Genevra saw the snow fall, 
for the last time on earth. 

May I tell you, dear sister, that I felt like staying whole 
weeks with those charming people and interesting places ? 
But it was important for me to be at home. So I left my 
dear Israel with Mark, who promised to obey my instruc- 
tions, and bring him to me in a week, and so he did. Noble 
Mark Arlington ! I wonder if there are many such men 
as he and Randolph Mainard, living in rural homes, away 
from the rushing world, adorning the land we love, and 
blessing the human race ! 

But there are three things more, I must mention to you, 
Annettie, in that visit of mine to the home of my dear 
friend. The fore3t-field of sugar maples, in front of the 
house and yard, is the prettiest slope of woodland I have 
ever seen. Those trees are more beautiful than I can tell. 
No wonder that Israel calls all the sugar trees his own. 
14 


210 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


When we are driving through the woodlands, he often 
stops when he sees a sugar maple, and his heart seems to 
greet it as something that is very dear to him. 

Another thing I must tell you is, that I saw Uncle 
Dyke and Aunt Siller, the family servants that came with 
Israel’s grandfather from Virginia. They were younger 
than Israel’s father, and were married on the bank of the 
Shenandoah, just before he started to the university. 
They are a happy-looking pair of gray-headed Africans, 
and live, as they always have, in a nice cottage, with a 
yard and garden well kept, and adorned with flowers. 
Mark told me they kept his poultry yard, and could help 
him about many things. I asked Uncle Dyke why he did 
not go away to Mr. Lincoln, like others of his race. O 
master doctor, said he, we never wanted to be free. God 
made me fit to be a servant, and nothing else. Siller and 
me has always been glad we belonged to good white peo- 
ple; we love them, and they will always be kind to us. 
And, master doctor, Abolitionists don’t know anything 
about Africans. My father come from Africa ; and he 
told me to be glad that I was living in a country where 
Africans could not cut my head off and cook me for din- 
ner. He said, that when he was a boy, in Africa, he was 
always afraid they would eat him. So you see, master 
doctor, Africans is nothing like white people ; and Mr. 
Lincoln could not make them anything but Africans, 
And then, master doctor, Siller and me has buried all our 
children here, and we like to stay where the little graves 
can be close to ours when we die. Master Mark is very 
good to us, and we try to be good to him ; this is all the 
freedom we ever wants to have in this world. It was 
interesting, Annettie, to see those picturesque old servants, 
and to know they were contented with their human lot. 

The third, and most important reality I wish to mention 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


211 


to you now, is Mrs. Mark Arlington. It seems ungrateful 
to spend two days in her charming home, and yet not men- 
tion her name. It seems still more ungrateful to speak of 
her and not be pleased or pleasing while I speak. Yet, to 
you, Annettie, it is right for me to tell my impressions of 
her nature. “The proper study of mankind is man,” and 
you are still my classmate in this important part of learn- 
ing. It would be more than pleasant to admire Mrs. Ar- 
lington, if it were only for his sake. She was very polite 
to me, and I am grateful for her hospitality ; yet it was 
plain to see that she expected to be admired. She is fair, 
and may look pretty to careless observers, but to me her 
face is distressing. Her eyes are bright, but they have 
that strange keenness and subtility belonging to reptile 
eyes. They remind me that the Saviour said, “O genera- 
tion of vipers,” and that he said it to human beings. Cer- 
tainly, Annettie, it is strange that she should be loved by 
such a man as Mark Arlington. After Israel came back 
to his city home and to me, he told me that it was very 
hard for him to live away from Mark ; but life, said he, 
is too painful for me when I see much of Myrah. She has 
never been rude to me, because she knows I am always 
helping Mark in some way that promotes her prosperity ; 
but I cannot ferget her cruelty to Genevra. I forgive 
her, but it is not possible to respect her ; and that is an 
oppressive thought, when we remember she is my broth- 
er’s wife. But that is not all in Myrah that is repulsive 
and fearful. She is very censorious, and no one is safe 
from her injurious words. She can pervert the best and 
noblest things, and . never ascribes high motive or feeling 
to any person or action. She would poison any social 
atmosphere, and oppress the life of any upright person 
with her perplexing ways. After Genevra died, I lived 
on with Mark half a year — but it was too hard for me. 


212 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


Dear as he was and is, I parted from him, and came here, 
where I could live without corroding realities constantly 
before me. I told poor Mark, with the most brotherly 
candor, why I must part from him. I told him, too, that it 
was his duty as a man, a husband, and a Christian, to see 
and rebuke the faults of his wife, and strive earnestly to 
help her overcome them. I told him she could not go to 
heaven while she worshiped mammon, and spoke guile- 
fully, and delighted in censuring the best people she knew. 
All this was very hard to say, my dear doctor ; yet hard 
things ought to be done sometimes, tho’ the cross be ever 
so great. Poor Mark was used to suffering on Myrah’s 
account; yet then, he bowed his manly head and wept 
with agony. After a time, he said, Dear brother, I will 
try to be strong, and faithful to my duty. It is difficult 
for a man to tell his wife she does not speak the truth ; yet 
when she is in danger of eternal condemnation, he ought 
to help her if he can. Then he thanked me for my solic- 
itude and courage, all for his sake, and for the sake of 
Myrah, who had given me so much pain. O brother 
Israel, he said, life is a solemn thing ; it is indeed ! and 
with me, that solemnity is deeper to-day than ever before. 
It is terrible to give you up, to the companionship of oth- 
ers; yet you are right to go, dear brother, where you can 
be more serene and happy. But let me beg that you will 
always call this place your home, while I am living, and 
come to see me whenever you can, and stay with me as 
much as possible. This house seems more like home when 
you are in it ; and life seems dearer to me when I think of 
you, brother Israel. No man has a better brother than 
you have always been ; and I hope you will ever re- 
member, that I appreciate your beautiful life, and your 
noble nature. Always say your wishes to me, and ask me 
for anything I have that will help you. You will go to 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


213 


live among strangers, and may sometimes need a brother ; 
tho’ you will always find friends, where goodness and intel- 
lect are understood and valued. 

And now, said Israel, you can see, my dear doctor, the 
great difference between my brothers, Mark and Alfred. 
Mark can see the faults of his wife, and be just to others ; 
A'fred calls good evil, and evil good, if Dollie wishes him 
to do so. Mark is as much devoted to his wife as Alfred 
is to his ; yet he is not willing to be destroyed by her. 
But alas ! for poor Alfred, I almost believe he is willing to 
go to everlasting destruction if Dollie goes that way. It 
is mournful enough to think of Mark ; but the furnace of 
affliction is much more dark when I think of Alfred. 

Israel sighed, and then he said : Mark never has told me 
he was married to the wrong person, and he ought not to 
say it, yet he thinks it I am sure. He is as kind to Myrah 
as if she were good and lovely, and perhaps he ought to 
be, for she is the person he foolishly preferred to all others. 
He thinks about it as he should, I am sure ; and I am glad 
he is so wise, and true, and strong. Very consoling and 
beautiful to me is the spirit of my brother Mark. I know 
he is a child of light and loves to walk in the beauty of 
holiness. 

That is the last thing, Annettie, which Israel told me 
this very afternoon. But I have been four evenings writ- 
ing this letter. Many are the sufferings I have ministered 
unto in that time. O Annettie, this is a suffering world, 
however beautiful it may be to poets, and people who re- 
joice in the sunshine of life and heed not the woes of 
others. The world is beautiful to me, dear sister; yet I 
could not enjoy it if God were not my strong consolation 
and helper. It is not in my power to become accustomed 
to scenes of suffering. It is very fortunate that my nerves 
are strong and my mind addicted to prayer. One has to 


214 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


be a physician to know how much a physician endures, 
and how much he achieves. But now, good-night, sweet 
sister. May the Father of Mercies keep you from all suf- 
fering and sorrow, is often the prayer of 

Your devoted brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XXIX. 

Dear Annettie — This letter must be written to tell you 
a little chapter of my own history. You will be surprised, 
perhaps, to hear that, when Mr. Vidii took his interesting 
daughters to New York last week, I joined their party as 
they passed through our city. They were here a whole 
day, so that I could make provision for my patients ; and 
Israel was anxious for me to go, as it would only keep me 
a few days absent. I did not wait to return with our 
friends, for there was only one thing that made me wish to 
go, and when that was realized, I was ready to return 
quickly to my post of toil. That one thing was simple 
enough for a child, perhaps ; yet men are sometimes very 
much like children. I wanted to see how Miss Cornelia 
would look when she saw the great old ocean ; and I wished 
still more to hear what she would say before the face of 
such a wondrous expanse of water. I did see how she 
looked, Annettie, and I heard what she said in that mo- 
ment of wonder, and adoration, and joy. I held her gloves 
while she bathed her white hands in the receding tide, and 
wished that the deepness and expansion of “old ocean” 
might be contagious to human hearts and minds. I can- 
not tell you all she said, but you know it was all beautiful. 
Certainly your friend Miss Cornelia Vidii is lovely every- 
where. You were not mistaken when you told me so, long 
ago. And yet — and yet, Annettie, we have only seen her 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


215 


in the sunshine, and in flowery paths of peace, and joy, 
and beauty. Would she be lovely when clouds were in 
her sky ? When toils, and thorns, and crosses were min- 
gled with the flowers about her pathway ? This, dear sister, 

I do not know, and my heart, like the great ocean, keeps 
its appointed boundary. I do not think it is capable of 
loving a person whom I do not know to be essentially golden 
— one who would not be found wanting when weighed in a 
balance — one who would ever grow brighter and better in 
the sternest crucible of human life. 

I went with the charming Vidii party to the top of the 
great steeple of Trinity Church. It was worth all the 
weariness of climbing the three hundred and seventy 
steps, to hear Miss Cornelia talk about the wonderful 
landscapes below us. She said it was better to be there, 
than to stand “in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,” for 
there is more around to remind us of “the touch of an 
enchanter’s wand” — more “palaces” and more “prisons” 
for the mind to muse upon, than poets have ever found 
in Venice. And then, said she, tfiere is quite as much 
water in our scenery here, I am sure, as ever enriched the 
bounds of the Adriatic. Then she talked about water, 
Annettie — its beauty— its value— its wonderful demonstra- 
tion of Infinite Power and Goodness. All this was easy 
for Miss Cornelia to say. It was beautiful, too, for I love 
a glorious mind ; but this does not help to solve my great 
problem ; and I am still asking the same old question, 
about the lady I would like to love— how would she stand 
or talk in the battle of life ? How will I ever know this 
one great thing? You cannot tell me, dear sister, but 
you can pray for me ; and I can only wait, and watch, 
and pray for myself in this momentous perplexity. Do 
remember it, mv sister ; and think of me ever as 
Your faithful and confiding brother, 

Walter Verily. 


216 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


LETTER XXX. 

Dear Annettie — Israel resumed his narration a few 
days ago, and life seems more solemn and fearful than it 
did, before he told me this last chapter of his unoffending 
life. 

I have told you, said he, that in my few weeks of trav- 
eling last spring, I visited my brother Alfred ; but I did 
not tell you how mournful it was. I went to his home 
with some hope of brotherly kindness in his greeting, tho’ 
he had been cold in all his letters since we parted. I did 
not send in my name, but told the servant to say that an 
old friend wished to see Dr. Arlington. He came into 
the parlor — and O, dearest doctor, may you never know, 
in time nor in eternity, the dark cruelty of his look and 
voice, when he met me face to face in his own house. With 
a voice that seems to me yet like a death-shot, he exclaimed, 
Brother Israel ! is it possible you are here ? How could 
you presume to come into my house, after all that has 
been said and done to keep you out of it? I told him 
calmly that I was traveling a little for health, and wished 
very much to see him, and believed it was right to come, 
as I felt like forgiving his offenses, and had never said or 
done anything injurious to him or to Dollie. And then 
said I, If you have anything more to say about it, I will 
listen ; for it is certainly right that I should know my own 
brother. He then said that Dollie had never liked me, 
and it was his duty to defend her from all annoyances. 
He hoped I would go away without seeing her or the chil- 
dren, and that I would leave that city very soon. I told 
him he could certainly have his wish about my leaving 
his house; but I would stay in that city as long as it suited 
me to stay, and come back to it whenever I wished to 
come. He said he did not like to wouud my feelings, but 


LIVING AND LOVING . 


217 


he could uot avoid it, and that it was all my own fault. 
Surely, said he, you could have stayed away. There are 
places enough in the world for you to go, without coming 
where we live — you tormented us enough when you were 
here with Genevra — I did hope you would be satisfied 
with that visit, but you never did think of anything but 
having your own way. I sat and listened quietly, and 
thought of poor Genevra when she said, “ Dead and cold — 
dead, and dark, and cold, is my own brother Alfred !” 

A sense of his moral condition came into ray mind, and 
I felt an overwhelming thrill of anguish. 

Just then Dollie came in. She had listened, somehow, 
to our conversation, and felt like talking; so she said, 
Israel Arlington, what a poor, spiritless thing you are, to 
come into this house, when you know I hate you. Your 
pale face is enough to make us all sick. You would like 
to stay with your dear brother, no doubt, and make him 
take care of you, while he works so hard to make a living. 
You never have done anything in your life but make other 
people take care of you. No wonder you were distressed 
when your mother died. She had trouble enough taking 
care of you and Genevra — poor, helpless, useless things, 
with only sense enough to read books, and do nothing of 
any account. Stupid people call you both, intellectual, 
and lovely, and refined ; but neither of you ever had sense 
enough to get married. For my part, I hate such people ; 
so if you want somebody to nurse you and bury you, don’t 
come here — go to the rest of your brothers, and let some 
of them be troubled with your useless life — maybe their 
wives don’t hate you like I do. It makes me furious to 
see you. If you could feel an insult, and get angry like 
other people, I might tolerate you — I hate calm people — I 
always hated you ; and the sooner you get out of this 
house, the better. If my husband don’t make sure of it, 


218 


LIVING AND LOVING . 


I will. He used to love you, and think there was nobody 
like his brother Israel; but I have succeeded in bringing 
him out of all such ways. A man ought not to love any- 
body but bis wife — specially when she’s devoted to him as 
I am to my husband. Those are some of her words, Dr. 
Verily; but the tones and manner in which they were 
spoken cannot be described. Think of the simoom of the 
desert, and it will give you some idea of her fearfulness. 
The fact that she was my brother’s wife gave her undue 
power to torture me. I stayed on in the presence of my 
tormentors until they grew silent. I was paralyzed, and 
could not go when I wished to do so. All human things 
seemed hopeless to me — all life seemed useless — all gener- 
ous endeavor seemed wasted. I felt a sense of fear that I 
never felt before. The Bible seemed my only sufficient 
solace on earth, and I remembered that in it we are told, 
“ He that hateth his brother is a murderer.” Dollie’s 
mauner to me enforced this truth, and I shuddered. 
When I felt strong enough to go, I walked backwards to 
the door, and felt safer when the door was closed and I was 
entirely gone from my brother’s house. Dollie has culti- 
vated her anger until it is a sort of insanity. I do believe 
she is related to Henry the Eighth, and often feels as he 
did, when he had men and women beheaded. 

Again I went from the cruel home of that brother to the 
balmy presence of Carlottie Bell, and her sweet father and 
mother. To say it was like going from earth to heaven 
would not do justice to the transition, I am sure. When 
I was alone with Carlottie, I told her my life was again 
afflicted by Alfred and Dollie, tho’ it had been my hope 
that they were improved since Genevra’s death. Carlottie 
said there was no reason to think that either of them were 
softened in the least by that great bereavement. Alfred 
gave a party at his house a few days after he heard of it, 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


219 


and when I refused to go, she said, because ruy heart was 
too sad, Alfred said he had no taste for festivity at any 
time, but Dollie wished to give a party just then, and it 
was his duty to make her as happy as he could. Carlottie 
looked very sad and said, they are a mournful pair of 
human beings — the world would be lovelier to me if I did 
not know them. Dollie spoils every thing she has the 
power to spoil. If she had the power of Queen Elizabeth, 
she would be quite as unmerciful, I am sure. Nothing in 
this town is so cruel as Dollie. It never seemed right to 
me for her to be called Mrs. Arlington. Dollie Stone is 
the only name that suits her. It is strange that her great 
love of admiration does not constrain her to be more wo- 
manly. We know not how, nor when, nor where the 
change may come; yet we must hope she will not live and 
die as she is now. Thus you can see again, dear doctor, 
how wise, and frank, and tender, is my cousin Carlottie. 

But it was not possible for me to feel half the consola- 
tions that were around and above me. It was not in my 
power to forego the anguish that was inflicted upon me by 
goading words of cruelty and injustice. If it had been 
an enemy — as King David said — “if it had been an en- 
emy ” who afflicted me, I could have borne it ; but it was 
my brother — one who had been for years the darling of 
my heart and home. I have slept with his spirit close to 
mine through all the nights of his growing life — have led 
him and taught him in all the days of his guileless and de- 
pendent childhood. I have worked for him with an elder 
brother’s best devotedness — have prayed for him always, 
and hoped high hopes for his goodness, and wisdom, and 
rectitude. I have believed implicitly that he would be my 
faithful brother while we both lived on earth, and then, in 
eternity that we would dwell together with peculiar joy. 
I have never wronged him in any word or action. I have 


220 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


suffered for his sake, and have preferred his weal to my 
own, ever since he could lisp my mother’s name, and lay 
his dimpled hand in mine. And now, what has he given 
me to drink! O Doctor Verily, there are cups of bitter- 
ness that none but a brother’s hand can mix and make us 
quaff — there are clouds which brothers and sisters alone 
can ever hang about our sky. I will not tell you the most 
ignoble words of poor Alfred, but in eternity you will know 
why the wounds in my spirit are so unhealing. 

The persistency of his dark ways is amazing ! Even 
Genevra’s death seems to have no power to make him feel. 
When he looked into my pallid face he seemed to grow 
sterner and more severe. My calm reasoning and explan- 
ations were all as empty air to him. He seems incapable 
of understanding anything that does not suit his wife or 
relate to his profession. I feel a sense of sickness when I 
think of him — even his innocent childhood has become, to 
me, a sad recollection. Alas! for the destroying power 
that may be realized in a wounded spirit. There are 
times, Dr. Verily, when the past and the present seem to 
me one wide-spread field of blighted beauty and wasted 
endeavor. But this feeling does not abide with me. God 
and His Holy Word console me, and angels help me to 
look up and hope. I believe all that the Bible tells us 
about the ministry of angels ; and it consoles me to know 
that God sends them to those who are the heirs of His 
great salvation. It is balmy, too, to think of the departed 
whom I love, and feel that all the powers of evil could not 
have perverted their hearts and minds. 

The dead can soothe and admonish, with a power that 
living lips might wish for in vain. They constrain me to 
think of the mercies of the Lord, and to see how great 
and manifold they are ; and thus my sky grows clearer 
and calmer, when the darkness seems too grievous to be 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


221 


borne. Then it is I feel the trustingness of a little child, 
and obediently pray for them that despitefully persecute me. 

You can see in my experience, dear doctor, how possible 
it is to endure adversities that are unmixed with wrong ; 
and how life-destroying are those that grow out of willful- 
ness, and inhumanity, and sin. I never have told you 
that my sister Norah has been ungrateful and unkind to 
me. She has a nature like that of Alfred, and is given 
up to her own will. But I have been so long used to 
suffering on Norah ’s account, that she cannot disappoint and 
distress me with words and ways as Alfred can. Her be- 
havior to me made it easier to leave Mark and her, to 
locate a comfortable distance from her and Myrah. Very 
unnatural indeed are some of my sorrows ! 

Now, my dear doctor, said Israel, I have told you all 
the cardinal joys and sorrows of my unpretending, earnest 
life. Since I have been in this city, there has been no 
incident to vary the gentle current of my existence, except 
when I visited poor Alfred in the spring-time, as I have 
told you. 

I took his feverish hand in mine, Annettie, and thanked 
him for the confidingness that had imparted to me so much 
that is sacred and dear to his heart. I told him it was 
more to me than many books, and that I hope to keep it 
in my memory forever. Then I thanked him for the great 
lessons his life exhibited — lessons for living and for loving 
— lessons for sorrow and for joy — lessons that make life a 
blessing while we stay on earth, and keep us ready for the 
great transition, and the final audit to which we are hasten- 
ing. You can never know on earth, Annettie, how much 
I enjoy his perfect confidence, and his lofty loveliness. 
There is no earthly joy I could prize more than I do his 
love and his approbation. He still seems to me a “living 
harmony” — a harp that can utter nothing but melodies — 


222 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


melodies the sweetest and the most sublime. I ought to 
have told you long ago some of his reasons for becoming 
an editor. Once he said to me, I preferred editorial work 
to any other, for many reasons ; but chiefly for its far- 
reaching power over the hearts and minds of hungering 
and thirsting multitudes. No other man has power to 
send the good, the true, and the beautiful into human 
homes, and work for God and his fellowmen, as can a 
Christian editor. With his own pen, it is proper for him 
to “ rebuke, reprove, and exhort,” and men will read it. 
Then, he can adorn and enrich his pages with the written 
truth and wisdom of every age and clime. He can scatter 
pearls of thought, and golden stores of knowledge, that 
the poor man and his children could never enjoy without 
such brotherly kindness and taste as only an editor can 
bestow. Thousands read newspapers who seldom have 
time, or opportunity, or the will to read books. Now, An- 
nettie, these thoughts and feelings are worthy of any saint 
or angel ; yet they are as natural to my dear Israel as is 
the breath of life. How I wish you could see him now, 
dear sister, and listen to the beauty of his voice and accents. 
But you will never see his spiritual face, nor hear his voice 
of sweetness, in this dying world. My priceless friend is 
drawing very near to his heavenly home. Pray for him, 
dear sister, and for me, that I may be willing to let him go, 
and then learn to love, and live, and suffer as benignantly 
as he has done. With the deep love of a lifetime, and a 
hope of everlasting joy and peace, I remain as ever, 

Your brother, Walter Verily. 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


223 


LETTER XXXI. 

Dear Annettie — With the stricken heart of a bereft 
brother, I sit alone in this stilly night, to tell you of the 
very last days of my friend Israel. In the sweet Septem- 
ber days that he loved so well, his beautiful life faded 
away from the earth. He is gone, entirely gone, from a 
world that was not worthy of his excellent presence. I 
am stricken, and desolate, and bereft, Annettie ; yet it is 
almost pleasant to grieve for such a person as he was on 
earth, and as he is in heaven. Very blessed to me is the 
memory of my incomparable friend, Israel Arlington. 

For several days we knew that the end of his life was 
approaching. Perhaps no solemn reality was ever more 
beautiful. He told me again, that his faith in Redeeming 
love and power was a perfect faith ; and tho’ he loved to 
live on earth, he felt that it would be sweeter to depart 
and be with God, and “with the just made perfect.” 

A week before his departure he told me that it was his 
earnest wish for me to take his remains to the home of his 
brother Alfred. Tell him, said he, that I bequeath to him 
my lifeless form, and that I wish him to make my grave 
in the laud of his adoption, for “ where he dies, there 
would I be buried.” Tell him I send all that to him, and 
prayers and benedictions from my dying lips. Then my 
dear Israel said mournfully, the strongest human feeling I 
now have, is compassion for my brother Alfred — my way- 
ward and alienated brother. It consoles me to pray, that 
in heaven he may come back to me, and call me again his 
“ own brother Israel.” 

It is soothing to know, Annettie, that this solicitude and 
sorrow passed away from his heart and mind. For two 
days he was all serenity and peace, and slept to wake in 
the mornings, like a happy sickly child. 


224 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


When the solemn dying-time arrived, his brother Mark 
was close beside him, and so was I. Dear brothers, he said, 
this must be death that I am feeling now ; but it is not 
painful, it is not dark — it is only rest and peace — “the 
peace of God that passeth understanding.” Dying, and in 
peace — O how sweet it is! How blessed it is, to finish 
my course with joy, because “ I have fought a good fight,” 
and “have kept the faith,” as it is in Jesus. Glory to 
God in the highest for this “ unspeakable gift.” Here he 
rested, Annettie, and then said slowly : I do not see a 
light from the “shining shore,” as some have seen in dying ; 
yet I “ feel the good powers of the world to come ” — I do 
not hear the songs of angels, as some have heard in dying, 
yet I believe they are here to carry me to glory — I do not 
see the forms or faces of any beloved ones who have died 
before me, as some have seen in dying, yet I believe that 
they are near, to greet and gladden me, “ in the valley of 
the shadow of death.” Father, and mother, and Paul, and 
Genevra, are here, I am sure. There is a sense of love and 
joy in my heart, as if they were smiling on me. So good 
is God to me, so very good ! He is here, and they are 
with him, I am sure, so good is God to me, for Jesus’ sake — 
and He will take care of my departing spirit, so very good 
is God ! 

Those, Annettie, were the last words of my friend Israel 
Arlington. “ May my last end be like his.” It is a rich 
privilege to remember such a man. He had only lived 
forty-three years, yet it seems to me he has lived more 
really, and loved more perfectly, than any other person I 
know of. There is a beautiful sort of martyrdom in his 
whole life. “ Greater love hath no man than this, that a 
man lay down his life for his friends ; ” and that was the 
great principle of his existence, from the time he could 
think and act until he died. When those whom he loved 


LIVING AND LOVING . 


22 5 


and served distressed him, his heart did not turn away 
from them, but clung to them tenderly and faithfully, as 
with a hope to help them heavenward through all things. 
This was the sort of love that impelled him to bequeath 
his lifeless form and face to his wayward and ungrateful 
brother. In that solemn presence, he said, my brother’s 
heart may grow tender, and contrite, and wise unto salva- 
tion. It may strengthen him to see my grave, and to 
know that I wish to sleep beside him there, and wake very 
near to him in the morning of the resurrection. Who was 
ever so thoughtful and tender before, Annettie? Not 
any one. 

In the very first of October, Mark Arlington and I con- 
ducted the lifeless form of our beloved Israel to the lake- 
side home of his brother Alfred; and with fidelity, I 
delivered the message, sent from the dying lips of the 
departed brother. Surprise and bewilderment were the 
only feelings he manifested. The casket was opened that 
evening in his elegant parlor, and Dr. Arlington gazed 
serenely on the dead face of his noble brother. In the 
cool October atmosphere, no change had come over the 
features or the expression of that lovely face. 

The next morning, we found Dr. Arlington in the room 
with his dead brother, and looking as if he almost realized 
the solemnity of death, and the bereavement that was 
upon him. He walked the floor with slow, sad steps; and 
with arms folded, as if to sustain himself, he stood beside 
the coffin again and again, to gaze upon the calm, unwak- 
ing sleeper. Yes, in that last sad morning before the 
burial, Alfred Arlington, the unkind and ungrateful 
brother, gazed upon the face of the dead with a look of 
unutterable anguish. Long and silently he stood, with 
eyes fixed upon the pulseless clay, which even in death 
wore the majesty of a high consciousness. The polished 
15 


226 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


brow was still lofty and benign. Sorrow, and resignation, 
and faith, had woven a plaintive, holy smile about the 
lifeless lips — all his goodness, and fidelity, and tenderness, 
and strength, were written in his aspect. The living, 
stricken brother gazed, until he bowed his head, and cov- 
ered his face with his hands, and cried aloud, My brother, 
O my brother! art thou gone, and forever? Thy loving 
kindness, and faithfulness, and truth, can never die. 
Gentle own brother, O speak to me ! Listen to me, O 
listen to me but once again in this existence ! How can I 
give thee up so silently, so entirely ! He kissed the folded 
hands, that had led him so often in childhood, and toiled 
for him through weary years, with the unselfish love of a 
faithful elder brother. He laid his warm face close beside 
the face of the dead, and a shuddering sense of life and of 
death, seemed to penetrate his entire being. He knelt 
lowly down — threw his arms around the encoffined clay, 
and prayed aloud to God to help him, and be merciful to 
him in that terrible day. He prayed that infinite Good- 
ness and Power might save him from despair, and from 
everlasting darkness and deadness of soul. I cannot forget 
his thrilling fervor when he said, O Lord, most high and 
holy, in this hour of intolerable anguish, I give myself 
entirely to Thee, and entreat Thee to be merciful and 
help me, for Jesus’ sake. Surely mine is “ a broken and 
a contrite heart.” 

Dear Annettie, that was the sublimest conflict of soul 
that I have ever seen. It was a privilege to stand mutely 
in that solemn presence, while the brother of Israel Ar- 
lington was being transformed. Perhaps his dying prayers 
were being answered just then, while his dead cold lips had 
more power to persuade than all the living voices of elo- 
quence. 

I have reason to believe that Alfred Arlington was from 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


227 


that day a new creature ; and that the wise fidelity of his 
brother Israel has much to do with his safety, in time and 
in eternity. 

We buried our beloved dead that serene October day ; 
and in the evening we parted from Doctor Arlington, 
while the autumn leaves were falling about the gateway to 
his beautiful home. He asked me to correspond with him 
for the sake of his brother Israel ; and in that way we are 
friends. Mark and I are attached friends. He is almost 
as noble as Israel. But no one equals Israel in the com- 
pleteness of manly and lovely attainments. I shall never 
see his like again, Annettie. Every thing good and beau- 
tiful reminds me of him, whether it be visible, or mental, 
or practical. I cannot see the stars of night without com- 
muning with his remembered words. Their sublimity al- 
ways enchanted him. All created things really spoke to 
him of God. 

He would stand beside the lilies and drink deep draughts 
of love and truth from their unutterable beauty. Only 
think, said he, how wonderful, how pure, how stately they 
are, these flowers of a day. Who, by searching, could 
ever understand how they are made, and how they feed on 
air, and light, and water. His wisdom, and tenderness, 
and strength of soul, will always enslave me, Annettie. 
He is gone from earth, I know ; but his words, his nature, 
and his history, will live on, in my memory and in my 
heart. 

It is touching and beautiful to see how the people love 
him, in his native place, and in this city. Every day some 
one tells me of something good or great that he has said or 
done. Men from his native locality call at my office, when 
they come to the city, and say they wish to talk with me 
about Israel Arlington. They know that I was his physician 
and friend, and it seems to give them a peculiar interest in 


228 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


me. They tell me many interesting things about him, and 
reiterate many of his words and precepts. One earnest old 
man told me there never was a person like Israel Arlington, 
and never would be again. Even when a boy, said he, 
Israel was great and good, and people could not help loving 
him. He has done more good than any body can measure, 
and his influence will never die. It lives on in me, and in 
my children ; and I bless him for all I know of his words 
and ways. He said it was easier to do right than wrong, 
and so it is. He said, nothing is so easy to do, as to love 
God and keep His commandments ; and that is a great 
truth. He said, if children are kept busy, with things 
useful, and good, and true, and beautiful, and never per- 
mitted to play with bad children, they will be safer in time 
and in eternity than other children. I believe all that he 
said is true ; and I am glad he said those things to me, said 
the old man, for it has done me more good than thousands 
of dollars could have done. My children are the best and 
happiest children I know ; and it is all because we follow 
the opinions and example of Israel Arlington. 

Another man told me about Israel’s horses, and said, he 
delighted in horses, and took the best possible care of them. 
He always rode a fine horse, and kept the prettiest and 
safest one for his sister Genevra. No other people, he said, 
worked so much as the Arlington’s, or spent so little money, 
and no other family were so ornamental to the community. 
Doctor Verily, said he, I was proud of them all ; and the 
world seemed safer and happier to me when I was in sight 
of Israel Arlington. 

There is one among those old neighbors of Israel, that 
seems singularly perverse and benighted, yet he talked of 
him with tenderness and veneration. Among other things, 
he said, there is no other person on earth, in whom I have 
so much confidence as I had in Israel Arlington. I believe 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


229 


the Bible, because he believed it, and loved it. It made 
him love the whole human family. No one could be with 
him an hour without feeling his goodness and his power. 
My children almost worshiped him. People who knew 
him, always wished to have him with them when they 
were afflicted. He never talked like anybody else, Doctor 
Verily, and it was because he did not feel and think; like 
other people. It seemed the easiest thing in the world for 
him to be good and great. There ought to be more men 
iu this world like Israel. Annettie, if you had seen this 
rugged man, and listened to his words of tenderness and 
truth, you would say, with Bancroft and with me, that 
“ the love of the common people is the greatest of all 
fame.” When Randolph Mainard talked to me of Israel’s 
death, and wept aloud, it filled me with new degrees of 
love for both of them ; but when this knarled man talked 
of my matchless friend, I felt that he surely had softened 
a great rock, and waked up the fountains of goodness and 
feeling, that else might have slumbered forever. New 
feelings of wonder and veneration came over me ; and no 
other tribute to the memory of my departed friend seemed 
so eloquently to declare that Israel Arlington was God-like. 

He was a genius, Annettie — an artist of the highest 
style. He demonstrated in his life, the idealities of his 
lofiy mind — he enacted the pulsations of his great, warm 
heart. Many men win laurels of undying fame, because 
they “look into their hearts and write;” he preferred to 
look into his heart and live. Certainly I have never seen 
“ any other living epistle,” so full of power to teach the 
beauty of holiness, and the glory of God. 

I only knew him intimately, from March to the last of 
September ; yet it seems to me I have been with him all 
the days of his life. It is impossible to remember his 
history without wishing that Mark, and Alfred, and No- 


230 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


rah, had been guided more by his wisdom and his love. 
What blighting, and humiliation, and sorrow, they might 
have hindered, for themselves and for others. The divine 
Redeemer said, that “ a prophet is not without honor, save 
in his own country and among his own kindred ; ” but He 
did not say it was right that it should be so. I have 
reason to believe, Annettie, that it comes from a deep-laid 
plan of the Destroyer — the Enemy of all good. All that 
we believe about good and evil, and wisdom and folly, 
finds confirmation in the living history of Israel Arlington. 

You will not be surprised, my dear sister, when I tell 
you, that his sufferings have deepened my determination 
to be careful and prayerful, in choosing the person whose 
life shall be wedded to mine. May the Father of mercies 
save me, now and always, from blind and infatuated affec- 
tion ! I would rather live and die alone, having no home 
of love and beauty while I stay on earth, than to be 
married like Mark or Alfred Arlington. I ought to have 
told you that I saw the wife of Dr. Arlington, when we 
went to his home to bury my dear Israel — saw her only at 
the table, when we took our meals. She is a singular- 
looking person ; and the expression of her face is full of 
misery, as if she had never felt a gentle emotion in her 
life, nor ever dreamed of sweet serenity and peace. 

I am glad, Aunettie, that we are divinely told to “ pray 
for all men everywhere.” When I see a miserable looking 
person, or think of the sin that is in the world, my heart 
feels sick, until I have prayed to the Lord, for every 
human heart and home in the confines of this needy world. 
Surely we do need all the help of God and angels, that is 
offered to us in the word of Eternal Truth and Love. 

But I have not told you that my departed Israel left me 
an equal portion with his brothers, in the division of his 
unpretending estate. He gave me algo his beautiful horse, 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


231 


and some of his excellent books. His will was written 
long before his very last days. He gave to the oldest 
daughter of his sister Norah, the portion that was intended 
for Norah, because the child has always said she would 
never be married to any one, and that her life should be 
devoted to her mother. I wanted Israel to accept my pro- 
fessional services as a brotherly gift, but he was not willing 
to do so. I tell you all this, Annettie, because it will help 
you to know him. I hope you will keep, securely, all that 
I have written to you of his history. It might console me 
to read it, if I live to be old. 

With a love that is made deeper and warmer by this 
bereavement, I am still, 

Your brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XXXII. 

Dear Annettie — It will not surprise you to hear, that 
I have visited your charming Cornelia in this bleak winter- 
time. Of course I wanted to see her, and besides, I wanted 
to see how she behaves at home when the world is all 
dreary and cold. What will you think, dear sister, if I 
tell you, she never seemed so lovely to me as she did then ? 
Certainly she knows how to make her home bright and 
warm, when the world around it is filled with snow, and 
ice, and coldness. 

The flowers in her parlor windows were the sweetest 
that ever bloom, and Miss Cornelia talked more beauti- 
fully than ever. She did, Annettie, tho’ you have often 
said she was perfect in her way of talking. The mignion- 
ette was sweet, but her voice was sweeter still. 

Some of their good neighbors were spending the day 
with the gentle Vidiis, and I was so fortunate as to make 


232 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


their acquaintance. Yes, Annettie, I was more than 
fortunate that day; for it led to the solution of my great 
problem, my deep perplexity ; and I am hastening to tell 
you all about it, and the pleasure it continues to give ine. 

In that wintery visit, it was my good fortune to meet a 
clever youth, who was there with his mother that very 
day. His name is James Norris. When we parted, I 
invited him to call and see me when he came to the city. 
A few days after, he did call at my office one rainy day, 
and sat two or three hours with me. We talked of many 
things, for James Norris is both good and sensible. When 
I asked about my acquaintances in his locality, he spoke 
of them with interest and kindness. He said his mother 
liked the most of her neighbors, but she loved Mr. Vidii’s 
family best of all. He then ascribed some peculiar excel- 
lence to each one of the family, and spoke of them 
individually, as if it gave him peculiar pleasure to talk 
of them. 

Miss Cornelia, he said, was everybody’s favorite, tho’ 
they loved Miss May very much. But Miss Cornelia is 
the oldest, said he ; and no one can be any better than she 
is. My mother says she is an angel, because she is good 
to everybody, whether they deserve it or not. There is 
otie Mrs. Tinder, close by us, who is always angry with 
somebody, and fiuds fault with everybody she knows. 
Mother says she is silly, and selfish, and vain, beyond 
endurance. Last fall her husband died, and she was very 
sick herself, and Miss Cornelia and Miss May were as kind 
to her as if she had never called them proud and selfish, 
or spoken maliciously of anybody else. My mother is 
good and kind, said James, but she said they were better 
to Mrs. Tinder than she could be. She says Miss Cornelia 
is a saint, and a leading spirit besides; for she makes other 
people better to Mrs. Tinder than they want to be. Now, An- 


LIVING AND LOVING . 


233 


nettie, it does seem strange, that this upright, guileless boy 
should have told me the very things I have been so long 
wishing to know. No learned lore, no book of beauty, no 
voice of eloquence, could have been half so charming to 
me. Yet I listened silently, and when he turned to other 
subjects, I talked, and talked with pleasure, for every thing 
in the universe was filled with new life to me. James 
Norris had no idea what he had done for me. He did 
not see that the gladness in my heart was a deep and 
sacred joy, and that his simple words of truth had made 
it so. Yet, I am grateful to him, Annettie ; and will 
always think of him as a person to whom I am peculiarly 
indebted. He seems to me a messenger, especially sent, 
to tell me that Miss Cornelia can never be vindictive, or 
unkind to any human being. 

I have not seen her since that wiutery day, more than 
two weeks ago ; yet I love her, Annettie, with a love that 
she does not dream of. The waiting to know her, before 
I surrendered my heart to her influence, will always help 
to deepen my self-respect. I am glad I waited, dear sister, 
but I am glad of everything just now, tho’ it is all uncer- 
tain about my destiny. Miss Cornelia may refuse my 
heart when it is offered to her, and I may have to keep it 
for myself, with a new, great sorrow in its depths and 
fountains. I have no reason to suppose that she cares the 
least fur me, except as a pleasant acquaintance and friend. 
But two things constrain me to hope, Annettie — she is not 
interested in any other person as a lover, I am sure — 
almost — and in the second place, our tastes and princi- 
ples are peculiarly congenial. 

But I have talked long enough about it, dear sister, so 
good night. With many hopes for myself, and for all the 
wise-hearted on earth, I remain, as I ever shall he, 

Your affectionate brother, Walter Verily. 


234 


LIVING AND LO VING. 


LETTER XXXIII. 

Dear Annettie — I know how anxious you are to hear 
of my affairs of the heart, and I hasten to tell you that, 
two days ago, I offered my heart to Miss Cornelia, and she 
deliberately accepted it. I am the happiest of mortal men, 
dear sister ; and my happiness is a reality that rests on no 
common basis — no uncertain foundation. The charms 
that I love in Cornelia Vidii come out from her evangelized 
soul, and can never change, except to grow into greater 
perfection and loveliness. My confidence in her wisdom 
and goodness is shadowless and perfect. A sweet repose 
rests on my spirit continually, like a heavenly benediction. 

But I am not too happy to appreciate your sisterly sym- 
pathy and interest in this time of my perfect peace and 
joy. “The course of true love never did run smooth,” 
when Shakspere lived and wrote, but now it sometimes does, 
Annettie, and it might always do so, if people were only 
rational and prayerful about loving. But you are in no 
mood, just now, to listen to one sentence of my reiterated 
oid homily about loving, and the way human life is so often 
blighted by Satan and human willfulness. You are all 
eagerness to hear more about my betrothal — my courtship. 
You would like to ask me a multitude of questions, I know 
you would. You want to know when, and where, and how, 
I made my declaration of love to Cornelia. You would 
rather hear how she looked and what she said, than to read 
all the tales of romance that have ever been written and 
sold. I can almost hear you ask, if she permitted me to 
seal our engagement with a kiss. You remember that I 
promised long ago, if ever I should be engaged to be mar- 
ried, I would tell you, Annettie, if the lady permitted me 
to kiss her when she accepted my heart and hand. You 
know I used to say in those days, if she refused to kiss me, 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


235 


after accepting my heart, I would take back my heart and 
hand, and say she did not love me. You told me then, I 
would be glad to win the person I really loved, whether 
she gave me the kiss or not. It is my duty to tell you that 
you were not mistaken, dear sister. Indeed, Miss Cornelia 
never looked so divine to me as when she said, O no! Dr. 
Verily, I cannot kiss a lover, even when it is such a person 
as you are, and one whom I have really elected as my 
guardian through all the journey of life. The kissing of lov- 
ers, she said, is a common thing in poetry ; but even there it 
seems unnatural and unlovely to me. And then, she smiled, 
Annettie, as no one ever smiled before. She blushed as 
palev roses do, and said, Doctor Verily, I must save all 
my kisses of woman’s love for my husband. Perhaps you 
will call me a goose, Annettie, for telling, first of all, the 
very last thing in my courtship. Well, perhaps I am a 
goose, but Cornelia does not think so. She said I talked 
like a philosopher when she refused to kiss me; and then, 
she suffered me to kiss her hand, in token of allegiance to 
her as my queen of love and beauty. 

And now, Annettie, I will begin at the beginning* 
and tell you how I made a journey to Vinolia, one day in 
the time of violets, for the express purpose of addressing 
Miss Cornelia Vidii. I took a friend with me, for Miss May 
to entertain, and to destroy the extreme personality of my 
vidt. In the afternoon, we walked about the beautiful 
grounds, as a matter of course. Miss Cornelia and I wan- 
dered to the south-east corner of the yard, and sat on that, 
rustic bench you like so well, under the old elm tree that 
is covered with grapevines. Certainly all this was just 
what I wished for ; yet I trembled a little when I told her 
that the object of my visit that day was both sacred and 
momentous to me ; and that if she would listen, I had a 
long story to tell her. She said she would surely listen. 


236 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


It was a long story, Annettie, for I began by telling her 
the impression she made on ray heart and mind, the first 
time I ever conversed with her — told her how the expres- 
sion of her face, and the accents of her voice, have always 
charmed me. Then I told her how I had kept my heart from 
loving her, and told her why. I told her again of the 
cloud of witnesses that have demonstrated to me, the power 
a woman has over her husband, and over the happiness of 
all whom he loves. I told her that from my childhood, 
some very clever people had seemed to me miserably mar- 
ried, tho’ they called themselves happy. I reiterated to 
her the sorrows of my dear friend Israel ; and the suffer- 
ings and desolation of Miss Antonia Wentworth. I told 
her how mightily such things have admonished me to be 
wise, and know, beyond all doubt and uncertainty, what 
manner of person I suffered my heart to love. I told her 
how I have watched every sentiment she has uttered before 
me — every tone of her voice — all her actions great and 
small — told her, that, so far as I could discern, her feel- 
ings, and principles, and attainments, were all charming 
to me. Then I told her how easy it would be for the 
angel of my home,, to make me more than wretched, by 
being unkind or unjust to any living thing, and especially 
to the friends who are dear to me. I told her, that with 
all these things in my mind, I had waited seven years, to 
lniniv something about her disposition when it ivas really tested. 
Then I told her how James Norris had unwittingly satis- 
fied my mind on that important point ; and that, now, I 
am her undoubting and devoted lover — told her that I 
have reason to believe she would lead me heavenward all 
the days of my life ; and never binder my happiness by 
unwomanly and unlovely words and deeds. Then I told 
her, that the love of her religious heart, would be to me 
the richest blessing on earth, and asked her to be my bet- 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


ter angel, and my dearest friend, through all the journey 
of life. I asked her to tell me if she could thus trust a 
person, who had been so willful and wise as I had been. 
Sne smiled one of her sweet smiles and said, in a voice 
just audible, Annettie would think me the stupidest per- 
son in the world, if I could reject her matchless brother. 
Surely I must honor such love as yours, and prize the 
high confidence you have in my nature. Your wisdom 
and firmness, in waiting to know me, make me willing to 
trust you implicitly, Doctor Verily, through all the days 
of my earthly life. Then I said, you do accept my heart 
and hand, fairest and best Curnelia, and I may ask your 
father and mother to give you away to me, that I may be 
one of the richest men on earth. The tears came into her 
sweet eyes, and rolled quietly down, Annettie. After a 
moment of solemn silence, she said, yes, you may ask my 
father and mother for me, as you have said, but not now. 
It is all so new and strange to me, Doctor Verily, that I 
am not ready to feel they have given me away. May I 
tell you, she said, that you have surprised me very much 
this afternoon ? It never occurred to me, that you would 
love a lady who was not brilliant, and gifted, and beautiful. 
I thought you visited us because Annettie loved us, and 
because our home is rural and sweet. We have all prized 
and esteemed you as an amiable and interesting friend, but 
I have never thought of loving you until this hour. You 
seem a different person, she said, since you told me of your 
deep interest in me, and the way you have waited to know 
my real nature before you would love me. The depth and 
dignity of your character is plainer to me now, and life 
seems more real and beautiful than ever before. All the 
world seems new to me, Doctor Verily, since your earnest 
discourse about life and love, in relation to yourself and 
to me. The poet was not mistaken when she said, 


238 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


“There are moments I think, when the feelings unclose 
Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose.” 

Then it was that I asked her for the kiss, Annettie, which 
she fortunately refused to give. I say fortunately, because 
I believe my happiness is of a higher style than it would 
have been if she had kissed me. 

Now, my dear sister, have I not been satisfactory and 
good, telling you so much about the time, and place, and 
manner, of my courtship? It is said, that people are apt to 
blush, and tremble, and forget all they wish to say, at such 
a time. I am glad it was not so with Cornelia and me. 
The serenity, and explicit confidingness which characterized 
the conversation of that occasion, will be evermore a beau- 
tiful memory, to Cornelia and to me. We will love to call 
it back, again, and again, with “ the place, the hour, the 
sunshine and the shade.” I live whole ages of joy e very- 
time I meditate on that one day. 

There is no shadow of regret, Annettie, in all that relates 
to the history of my interestedness in Cornelia Vidii. It 
has been a sort of talisman, turning me more and more to 
the good, the true, and the beautiful. Even the keeping 
of my purpose, to wait and know her well, has made me a 
stronger and more earnest man. But I ought to tell you, 
that there has ever been a spell of power and beauty in the 
hope, that she would be my soul’s ideal, when her nature 
might be tested by the difficult realities of common life. 

Perhaps Cornelia has told you that she corresponds with 
me now. I need not tell you that her letters are always 
beautiful, and singularly elevating. She writes like her- 
self, and talks of every thing that is lovely in the earth, 
and air, and sky — the past, the present, and the future ; 
time and eternity, with all their interest and value, she 
descants upon, but never talks of woman’s love ; that is 
the subject she evades and avoids in writing to me. I had 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


m 

a note from her this morning, and it is as mute on the sub- 
ject of love as if we were not betrothed to each other ; yet 
I know she loves me, Annettie. She told me so when she 
accepted me as her guardian elect, and I believe her im- 
plicitly. 

I tell you such things, dear sister, because you are so 
much interested in all that relates to Cornelia and to me, 
in this momentous time of our earthly life. You will always 
love us and pray for us, I know, and that is still a solace 
and a joy to 

Your affectionate brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XXXIV. 

Dear Annettie — Two weeks after our betrothal I vis- 
ited Miss Cornelia again, and she gave me leave to ask her 
parents for the gift I coveted more than all other things on 
earth. 

I did ask them, Annettie, and it was a solemn hour in- 
deed, to them and to me. 

I can never forget the gentle dignity of Mr. and Mrs. 
Vidii, when I asked them to give me Cornelia, to adorn my 
home, and make it a paradise on earth. I asked them both 
at one time, because I wished to remember them as sitting 
side by side, when thus I entreated them. Mrs. Vidii said, 
pensively, that it seemed right to be satisfied with Cornelia’s 
decision. And yet, said Mr. Vidii, it is difficult to give 
such a child away, to any human being. But we will give 
Cornelia to you, Doctor Verily ; and may the best bless- 
ings of heaven and earth rest upon you and my priceless 
child. Both of you are really the children of God, he 
said, and love the light of His Holy Word. In that, there 
is safety amidst the joys and sorrows of this life, and safety 


240 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


for the life to come. Then his calm eyes looked out on the 
universe, as if he were gazing into the far off paradise, and 
he said, with unutterable tenderness, our daughter may 
henceforth dwell in a home apart from us in this world, 
yet in the world to come, her place will be very close to 
ours, and through all the ages of eternity her sweet voice 
will call me father. You can see, Annettie, how his heart 
went up to God and heaven, for strength and consolation, - 
when he gave to me his much-loved daughter. Mr. and 
Mrs. Vidii both assured me that they would rather give 
Cornelia to me than to any other person. This was pleas- 
ing to my human nature; yet that was a trying time, dear 
sister, and that whole day was sad. Poor Miss May was 
looking like a bereft sister, and Cornelia was as solemn as 
if the destiny of her entire family must be shadowed by 
her betrothal to me. But she did not seem less lovely to 
me ; and tho’ all the sadness was painful, it pleased me, 
and attracted my heart into a sense of adoption in that 
family. Indeed, Annettie, all human nature wore a new 
degree of dignity in my estimation, after that sad day in 
the home of the beloved Cornelia. Miss May could not 
be expected to give up her only sister without suffering. 
They have grown like twin rose3 on one stem until now, 
and there is no philosophy, divine or human, that can 
make it easy for them to dwell apart. It is a great trial. 
Poor May told me that I was the only person she knew, to 
whom she would willingly give her sister, and that she 
would strive to be satisfied with the great and perfect 
plans of our Father in heaven. Pray for us, dear sister, 
and ask of heaven that I may be more than worthy of all 
the high confidence reposed in me. 

Cornelia is not willing to have any festive assembling of 
friends at her marraige ; though her brothers wish it, and 
think it is almost due to the many who love her, and to 


LIVING AND LOVING . 


241 


me. She says it would be painful to her parents to see 
people glad at such a time, and sister May could not 
endure it. Indeed, I think that Cornelia herself feels too 
sad at parting from her family, to be capable of anything 
like entertaining. Shall I tell you, Annettie, that for all 
this tenderness I love her more and more? 

But you, dear sister, will think only of joy, when I tell 
you that your great wish for your friend Cornelia, and for 
your brother Walter, will really be consummated in a 
short time. God permitting, on the seventeenth day of 
May, when the first roses are unfolding, at ten o’clock in 
the morning, there will be a quiet group of friends in the 
home of Cornelia, and she will stand at my side in white 
robes and an ethereal veil, to hear the solemn words of the 
minister, and be given to me, with prayers and benedic- 
tions, to be mine, “so long as we both shall live.” How 
solemn and yet how beautiful is the thought, Annettie ! 
There is something divine in it, that can never grow old 
to human hearts and minds. It may be, that in the morn- 
ing of creation, a wise marriage seemed less beautiful to 
the angels than it now seems to me. They had never 
seen the great contrast between the wise and the unwise 
affections of earth — they never had trembled with fear 
about married woes, as I have. 

Both Cornelia and I wish for you to know the appointed 
day of our union, now, that your thoughts may be about 
us, and that your prayers may go up to the heavenly 
throne, for the divine blessing, that is needed by all who 
live and love on earth. The longer I live and learn, An- 
nettie, the more implicitly I believe that the prayers of the 
righteous avail much, for the children of men. 

1 need not tell you, dear sister, that many and great 
changes are consequent on one marriage, as well as on 
one death. One of the changes that I foresee just now, 
16 


242 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


will be sad to you and to me. It is, that I cannot con* 
tinue to write you those long historic letters which give 
you so much pleasure. I will always write to you often, 
but my letters will sometimes be very short. The duties 
of my profession have become very laborious, and the 
duty I shall owe to a wife and her happiness will require 
time and special attention. You know all this, and your 
wise, good heart will not require impracticable things of 
Your faithful tho’ finite brother, 

Walter Verily. 


LETTER XXXV. 

Dear Annettie — There is one more historic letter I 
must write you before the drama of my life is changed. I 
want to tell you of an interesting pair of my young 
friends, who are now occupying all my spare sympathies, 
as well as my spare hours. 

There is, in my office of late, a student of medicine, 
who is very talented and very good. His name is Gordon 
Macdonald — quite a Scottish name, for his father came 
from bonnie Scotland ; and yet, his mother is almost akin 
to me, for she is a sister of Randolph Mainard. This 
interesting young man, with his interesting lineage, is very 
much in love with a fair lady, just now, who is also a very 
interesting person. Indeed, he deserves credit for his 
taste and his devotion ; for the lady is marvelously gifted, 
and good, and beautiful. She looks like a stately queen, 
with soft hazel eyes and dark brown hair. She talks like 
a philosopher, and yet like a deep-hearted woman, with a 
voice that is always soft and sweet. A plaintive tone is in 
her voice and aspect, as if she had been early baptized 
with waters of affliction. She is cheerful and brilliant in 
society; and this tone of plaintiveness gives it all a power 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


243 


and a grace that goes deep into one’s heart. This inter- 
esting maiden of twenty-one is a niece of my friend Israel 
Arlington. She is the oldest daughter of his sister Norah, 
and her name is Edmonia Wolverton. I have known her 
ever since I went with Israel to visit his native home. 

She has spent the past winter in our city, with her 
father’s relatives, the Petersons. You will remember that 
Mr. John Peterson is one of our most worthy citizens, and 
that his wife is an excellent and accomplished person; tho’ 
she is so unfortunate as to have such a nephew as Eli 
Wolverton. 

The love of my pupil for Miss Edmonia is now a hope- 
less love ; yet it is all so interesting and peculiar, that you 
will like to hear about it. Gordon Macdonald does not 
care who knows about his devotion to this lady, or who 
discusses it in a Christian way. He talks to me more 
freely than to any one else, and tells me to use my own 
discretion in speaking of this, his subject. 

As for Miss Edmonia, she claims me as her peculiar 
friend. She says her right to me is inherited from her 
beloved uncle Israel. She talks to me freely and confid- 
ingly, tho’ she says she has nothing of her own to confide 
to any human keeping. I visited her as a sort of kins- 
man, while she sojourned in our city; and once I asked 
her if she could never revoke the sentence she had pro- 
nounced on my worthy friend, Gordon Macdonald. 0 no! 
said she ; I wish him a happier destiny than he could ever 
know if wedded to a heritage like mine. Then I said to 
her, How strange it is, Miss Edmonia, that your deep 
heart does not love so noble and lovable a person as Gor- 
don. There is a deep reason for that, said she, and I will 
explain it all to you. Away back in my childhood, I 
could see that my mother was unfortunately married. 
Children often see, and think, and feel, with great matur- 


244 


LIVING AND LOVING . 


ity and earnestness. I could see that my mother’s lot was 
sad, tho’ she loved my father devotedly, and though he 
never spoke unkindly to her, nor to any other person. 

It made me unhappy then, at times, and I said to my 
childish self, I will never love the way my mother loves, 
and I will never marry any human being. A sort of fear 
grew up in my young mind, and to me, marrying seemed 
the most solemn thing on earth. When my mother parted 
from my father, I was ten years old, and my soul seemed 
to sicken at the misery and the mystery of love, that deep, 
strange love that had led my mother to wed a person she 
could not live with. It was all dark to me. The foun- 
tains of my young heart seemed to ripple and dry away 
like waters before the terrible Simoom of the desert. 
Since then I have been as a harp unstrung, and incapable 
of melody — I shudder at the thought of loving as others 
love — I could not love Gordon Macdonald if I would, 
and I would not if I could. Good, and cultivated, and 
talented, and handsome as he is, I only regret that he loves 
me. There are others in this good land, that are worthy 
of his merits and his love, and some day he will be glad 
that I point him to a portion in life more unclouded than 
I could ever be to him. 

She paused and sighed, Annettie, and then said with 
serenity : I wish to devote my life to those who need me, 
because they stand in the same sad lot that I do, and in- 
herit the same sad woes that I inherit. It is already true, 
that my oldest brother, and my sister, are both miserably 
married. My dear mother needs a child like me to con- 
sole her, and make her feel that there is one person on 
earth who is entirely devoted to her comfort and happi- 
ness. Marriage, and the affection that leads to a right mar- 
riage, are all of heavenly appointment, I am sure ; yet the 
Bible promises beautiful blessings to the unmarried chil- 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


245 


dren of God. I have reason to believe that my path to 
paradise is as safe and sure as mortal path can be. I love 
to obey my Redeemer in all things — I am satisfied with 
tribulations and sorrows, knowing they will all end at last 
in heaven. Thus heroic and devout is Edmonia Wol- 
verton. 

I told her, Annettie, that her nature was almost as lofty 
as that of her Uncle Israel, and that the more I know of 
her the more my sympathies are enlisted for Gordon Mac- 
donald. Then I asked her if she ever thought how her 
life would be if her mother should die and leave her. 
Yes, said she, I have. But I have seen enough of life, to 
know that marrying does not insure independence or hap- 
piness. Mrs. Jonathan Speedwell has been married three 
times, ,and is now more lonely and uncomfortable, than 
Miss Lydia Babington, who is about the same age, and has 
been all her life, devoted to her brothers and sisters. Mrs. 
Speedwell has three rich dowers in her possession, and Miss 
Lydia has only a bare competency ; but Mrs. Speedwell 
says money cannot buy elsewhere the sweetness and inde- 
pendence of one’s own home. Her children are all mar- 
ried, and she was obliged to leave her home, because she 
could not live alone. Any one can see that her children 
and grandchildren are always too busy to attend to her. 
They are always in a hurry, always late, always reluc- 
tant in her service. Miss Lydia seems to be much happier 
in the home of her brother, than Mrs. Speedwell is in the 
home of her son. 

The Babingtons are better people than the Speedwells, 
and that makes the great difference in human life every- 
where. Goodness is the alchemy that turns every thing 
into gold, or into the happiness that is much better than 
gold ; and human wrong is the deadly poison that tortures 
every thing into misery, whether people be married or un- 
married. So said the sapient Edmonia. 


246 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


Then, Annettie, with a sad, sweet look of resignation, 
she said, in very gentle tones, there are dregs of bitterness 
in my cup of life, that no human skill can mitigate, no 
human love wash out with sw^et waters of affection, how- 
ever pure and deep those fountains might be. This worm- 
wood, Doctor Verily, is my inevitable portion, and it would 
be wrong for me to share it with Gordon Macdonald, even 
if I were capable of loving him. I am not afraid to be 
an old maid, and walk the pilgrimage of life alone. I will 
always be working in the vineyard of the Lord ; and He 
will “ give his angels charge concerning me.” It is blessed 
to know that my mother’s children may all be the children 
of God, and go through the tribulations of earth, up to 
the white-robed throng above. The bliss on earth I covet 
is a conscience void of offence to God, and to the entire 
family of man, and to live perpetually with an unshadowed 
sense of rectitude. I do not repine at the humiliation of 
my name, and the history of my father ; that might be 
sinful ; yet I must believe, that the children of parents 
wedded and parted like mine, have a peculiar work of love 
and suffering to do for each other in this world. 

Then she said thoughtfully, as if wishing to be trans- 
parent, I wish for you to know all there is to be known 
about my family, in order that you may understand me 
fully. For this reason it seems right for me to tell you 
something more about my father, tho’ it is painful beyond 
expression to talk of him. I am obliged to believe, Doctor 
Verily, that he is singularly reprobate. Ouly think how 
innately depraved he must be, when fifteen years of do- 
mestic life, spent with my gentle mother, did not constrain 
him to grow tolerably good and wise. Her deep love, her 
upright example and industry, might have taught and en- 
nobled any being with human understanding, if he pos- 
sessed a human heart. 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


247 


Then, Annettie, she bowed her head on her white hands, 
and the tears fell down like rain. After an interval of 
deep silence she said faulteringly, O Dr. Verily, no mortal 
mind can comprehend the anguish I endure, when recollect- 
ing that I cannot honor my father, nor love him — can only 
grieve over him, and pray for him. I never have known 
why my mother parted from him, for she certainly loves 
him yet, tho’ he is a wanderer and a reprobate. I am glad 
she still loves him. I have not seen him since my child- 
hood, and do not wish to see him. That is a hideous thought 
to me ; yet it is true, and is not my fault, but my unspeak- 
able misfortune. No one has ever told me what are his 
great faults or failings. My mother only speaks of the 
good that is in him. The fact that she could not continue 
to live with him, is, to my mind, his dark condemnation 
and reproach. That is as much as I wish to know of a 
mystery so expressive of evil, and so dark with sorrows. 

And then, this afflicted daughter of truth and goodness 
told me how she expected to spend her life teaching school, 
and helping her sorrowful mother. I will not live in vain, 
said she. My pupils always love me; and I teach them 
faithfully, to seek earnestly the best gifts. Dr. Macdonald 
says he is proud of me as his friend, and as a daughter of 
the land he loves. He shall never have reason to be less 
proud of my nature and my endeavors. Even if I live 
to be old, life will soon pass away; and ‘then we shall 
know, in the land of light, whether I am right or wrong 
in my understanding of duty and individual rectitude. It 
might not be right for any other person, yet surely it is 
right for me to live for ray mother. 

The next day, Annettie, after all this conversation, I 
told Dr. Macdonald that in my late visit to Miss Edmonia, 
I had tried to do a little special pleading for him. Thank 
you, he said, with a look of hopeless serenity. If you 


248 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


talked much with her on the subject of loving and being 
loved, you discovered, I am sure, that she is as sublime 
as she is beautiful ; and you also discovered, that it is not 
in the power of mortal man, to wake in her heart one tone 
of “love’s young dream.” You seem, said I, to know all 
about it. Yes, said he, I do; and I call her sublime be- 
cause there is nothing more sublimated than the soul of a 
martyr, and she is filled with the feeling that leads martyrs 
to die, for love of their integrity, or their sense of duty. 
She is every inch a heroine. It makes me stronger and 
braver to think of her. And then, said he, it is consoling 
to know, that if she could love any one better than her 
mother, she could love me. She told me so, with all the 
frankness of her noble, yet childlike nature. 

Then he laid down his book, Annettie, as if he felt like 
talking ; and I §aid, Miss Edmonia is a lovely and noble 
being ! It is a blessing to know and to appreciate such a 
person. ' You can overcome your great affection for her, 
by trying ; and after a time', you will love some one else, 
quite as well as you now love her. It is not yet in your 
power to realize the possibility of such a change in your 
feelings ; but such changes are right, and they are often 
very happy realities, in this wonderful existence. Yes, 
said Gordon, with the dignity of a philosopher, I know it 
is right for a change to come over the spirit of a dream 
like mine, and I will be rational, and wait to see how time 
and the ministry of angels will balmify my heart. My 
good uncle, Randolph Mainard, has told me that he loved 
one lady, and afterwards loved a second one, just as well 
as I love Miss Edmonia; that they both rejected him, and 
his heart bled long over each disappointment ; yet it 
healed, and then he loved again, quite as well and as 
wisely, and is now one of the happiest men on earth. He 
believes that Brenda Montveruon was created especially for 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


249 


him, in order that his home on earth might be a heavenly 
place. He often calls her Brenda Montvernon, because 
he loves the name she wore when he first thought of loving 
her. He tells me to be prayerful, and keep myself busy 
with useful work, mental and practical, and then my heart 
will heal itself. Certainly my uncle Randolph is a wise 
and safe adviser, and I have reason to revere all his opin- 
ions. His teaching on this subject contrasts finely with 
the weakness that dethroned the manhood of poor Byron, 
and made him say, when he was a rejected lover, that 
“ On the sea, and on the shore, he was a wanderer.” 

Then Annettie, he thanked me with manly sincerity for 
my sympathy, and said : It is a blessing to talk with such 
a man as you, Doctor Verily, and as my Uncle Randolph. 
All this, dear sister, is what I wanted you to know, about 
the love and the sorrows of Gordon Macdonald and Ed- 
monia Wolverton. Be sure to tell me what you think of 
Miss Edmonia. I know what you think of Gordon with- 
out being told. Both are very charming to me. 

It is delightful to know how many interesting, excellent 
people there are in this region of the world, scattered 
through the mixed community. They are, indeed, the 
salt of the earth, the very salt that it is needing. I am 
glad it is my good fortune to kuow so many of the excel- 
lent ones. The Arlingtons, the Mainards, the Barnses, 
with their homes and orbits, make, in my social sky, a 
beautiful galaxy — a refreshing source of light and joy. 

You can see, Annettie, how much I owe to my dear 
Israel, for all the interesting friends I have in the rural 
interior of our good State. But for him, I might never 
have known how much there is to love and admire in my 
native land. I can believe there are angels incarnate, 
scattered ab >ut on all our hills and iu all our valleys, and 
yet, we know there are multitudes of reckless boys and 


250 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


frivolous girls among the homes of wealth and luxury. 
My dear Israel said it was a blessing to be tolerably poor, 
and I almost believe it is true. 

There is one thing more that I ought to mention to you. 
He told me that his sister Norah’s oldest son was miserably 
married, and that her youngest daughter, at the age of 
fifteen years, married a man almost as unworthy as Eli 
Wolverton. He said it was mournful to notice the retri- 
bution visited upon poor Norah. She plead with her 
daughter to spare her the pain of having one she loved 
wedded tjo such a person, and the child treated her mother’s 
tears and pleadings, as the mother had treated the tears 
and pldhdings of her sister Genevra. Norah, he said, 
had been cruel to her own good mother, and her own 
children were hastening to iuflict on her the same oppres- 
sive toils and sorrows. Poor Israel said these things with 
anguish, yet, he said it was not possible to avert the retri- 
bution, or shut his eyes from seeing it. God is faithful 
aud holy, “ and with what measure ye mete, it shall be 
measured to you again. ” 

And just here, Anuettie, I will tell you something more 
about Alfred Arlington and his worldly wife. A few 
weeks ago,, their oldest daughter afflicted them, by marry- 
ing an accomplished spendthrift; and not long before that 
their oldest sou died, after a short illness. The grief that 
poor Alfred felt at the death of his brother Israel, was but 
the beginning of his sorrows. Perhaps some chastening 
power will yet soften the heart of Dollie, and give her the 
ability to feel for others. If ever she grows contrite and 
tender, her cruelty to my dear Israel, and to the gentle 
Genevra, might keep her in the dust of humility until she 
dies. The fact that they are no longer on earth, where she 
can ask their forgiveness, and make amends to them for 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


251 


all her wrongs, must be always painful to her, if her nature 
is ever softened and evangelized. 

And now, ray sister Annettie, you must not grieve if 
this is the last long letter I should ever write to you about 
the living and loving of other people. In one week more 
I shall be as happy as you wish me to be, and much of the 
time that has been spent in writing to you, will belong to 
C irnelia, in the evenings to come ; yet you will always be 
ray darling sister, and we must never cease to communi- 
cate often with each other. You know, Annettie, I think 
it wicked for brothers and sisters to neglect writing letters 
of brotherly love to one another. When they are too busy 
to write long letters, they can write short ones. A few 
words can give great pleasure, or obviate much pain and 
solicitude. 

But I am needing now, the balm of sleep; so good 
night, dear sister. With a love that makes life dear and 
beautiful, I am as ever, 

Your brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XXXVI. 

Dear Annettie — The bridal is over — our bridal — and I 
wish you had been with us, if it were only to see how lovely 
ever thing was at Vinolia in that morning of sunshine and 
roses. I almost believe that the fl >wers, and birds, and 
breezes, felt a monition of tenderness for the human hearts 
that were beUing there, and that angels were busy with 
the bridal of Cornelia Vidii. I need not tell you how 
divine she seemed to me that morning, and human words 
can never say the hallowed emotions of my heart, when 
her gentle father placed her hand in mine. I never felt 
so entirely credulous and childlike before “the throne of 


252 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


an Infinite Majesty,” as on that morning of mercy, and 
beuity, and blessedness — I never gave myself up so de- 
voutly to the service and the sovereignty of the Lord on 
high. The universe seemed more than filled with His glory 
and his goodness — and I felt anew how sweet it is, to live 
in the light of his loving favor. And those feelings do not 
pass away, Annettie. NVe were only a little band of friends 
at Vinolia on that aupsicious morning of my history ; and 
after dinner the train of cars came on and brought the 
bridegroom and the bride to our city home, where sat our 
pensive mother, waiting to greet us, with her sweet smile, 
and her tender benediction. 

Sister May and brother Claudius came with us. And 
several friends called that evening to see if I was really a 
married man. This is the brief history of that eventful 
day. And yet, I ought to tell you that when the callers 
were gone in the evening, we read a Psalm, and sang an 
anthem, and worshiped the Lord most devoutly before the 
day was entirely complete. The harp was in perfect tune 
for melody that evening, and all seemed to qnjoy it as much 
as I did. This, Annettie, was the finale to that beautiful 
day. If you and Albert Oneal had been with us it would 
have been too perfect for an earthly day. 

I have not told you that Gordon Macdonald was the only 
person who went with me from the city to any wedding. I 
preferred his attendance, partly because I like him so well, 
and partly because he is so elegant, with his sweet manners 
and his rare mind. Really, he would be an ornament in 
any place. He looks like a Saxon prince, with his tall 
form, and broad alabaster brow. His hair is a dark golden 
color, and waves just enough upon that brow, while his 
blue eyes below it are gloriously serene. It will always 
seem marvelous to me, that Edmonia Wolverton did not 
love him. “ The mood of woman who can tell ! ” may well 


living and loving. 


253 

be written in a book, and by a truthful bard. But this 
letter is quite long enough for a bridegroom to write, so 
adieu, my own sister, adieu. Cornelia is writing a leaf for 
herself, and so is mother. With much affection, I am still, 
Your brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XXXVII. 

Dear Annettie — Yesterday was the first anniversary 
of our marriage, but I did not have time to write to you. 
I have not time this evening, yet I must tell you how 
blessed the year has been, and how beautifully congenial 
mother and Cornelia are to each other. Mother said yes- 
terday she felt more ready to die, now that she can leave 
me with such a person as Cornelia. Poor wifie wept like 
a little child, at the idea of mother’s dying. When we 
were alone, she said, Mother is old, and will, perhaps, die 
before us; but I could not bear to give her up. She is 
lovelier to me than youth and beauty could ever be — and 
then, she is the mother of my husband. That bond grows 
stronger every day. Then, Annettie, she laid her hand in 
mine, and said, Mother has told me how you looked when 
you were a little, helpless child. She says you were 
always singularly good, and gentle, and thoughtful; that 
you seldom ever cried, as other children do. She loves to 
talk about the days gone by, and I love to listen to all she 
can say or tell. It is both history and poetry to me. I 
hope she will live to be very old, and I pray that she may 
not suffer with the infirmities of age ; and yet, said my 
angelic wife, if mother should live on, and have to suffer, 
it will be sweet to soothe her and help her to endure. 
God is good, and we will hope in His mercy for her, at d 
for all whom we love. 


254 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


All these sweet things and more, she said, Annettie, 
because mother spoke about dying. It will make you 
love Cornelia better than ever. It is almost wonderful to 
see how everybody loves her. I used to call you an 
enthusiast, and laugh at you for saying she was “strangely 
charming — fascinating — divine and now I ask your par- 
don, dear sister, for saying your friendship for her made 
you an enthusiast. It seems that no one ever sees her with 
indifference. Little children and old people are all at- 
tracted by her. The plain people love her; and the culti- 
vated, exclusive circles are evidently charmed by her 
unpretending elegance and intellect. Dorethea, our Ger- 
man cook, says, she would like to live forever with Miss 
Cornelia. It is my duty to tell you all this, dear sister, 
because you have so often said that Cornelia would suit 
me better than any other person in all the world. Cer- 
tainly she is to me a priceless gift from the Father of 
mercies. And what am I, Annettie, that He should be so 
very good to me? And “what shall I render unto God 
for all His benefits to me,” and to them that I love on the 
earth ? 

Yesterday we kept the anniversary of our marriage in 
our hearts. Cornelia sang with special pleasure our sweet 
little favorite song, Flow on, thou shining river. We had 
more music in the evening than usual, and this song is 
charming when I play, for it, an accompaniment on the 
harp. Cornelia only sings the first stanza now, and sings 
it twice, because it suits her. I wish you could have 
heard her utter the words last evening, as she sang them 
with her uncommon accents and feeling. Simple as they 
are, those words have followed me about all day, just as 
they did when I was a lover, and Miss Cornelia Vidii 
sang that song for me. Do you sing it yet, Annettie ? or 
have you forgotten it ? I want you to enjoy the first stanza 


living and loving. 


255 

when you read this anniversary letter, so I will write it for 
you. Cornelia says it is to us a sort of prophecy, and 
we are enjoying its fulfillment. That will give it a new 
interest to you. 

Flow on thou shining river, 

But ere thou reach the sea, 

Seek Ella’s bower and give her 
The wreaths I fling o'er thee ; 

And tell her thus, if she’ll be mine, 

The current of our lives shall be, 

With joys along their course to shine, 

Like those sweet flowers on thee. 

We closed our anniversary enjoyments of home by sing- 
ing Old Hundred, with the organ to help our voices of 
adoration, and praise to the Giver of all good and perfect 
gifts. I love to imagine how Martin Luther felt, when he 
composed this grandest of melodies. How sublime it is, 
Annettie ! But we have talked of this many a time, in 
other days, and now I will say farewell, sweet sister, fare- 
well. As ever, and always, I am, with affection, 

Your brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XXXVIII. 

Dear Annettie — I am writing this evening just to 
tell you that Cornelia has given me some trouble of late. 
You can remember my weakness for velvet dresses. This 
fall, I told my darling, it would please me very much for 
her to get a black velvet dress, and she almost refused to 
obey my request. She said it did not seem to her quite 
right, for the wife of a poor doctor, to wear a velvet dress. 
She argued against it, Annettie, and she argued sweetly; 
but I felt like being a tyrant just then, so I told her if 


256 


LIVING AMD LO VI MG. 


she did not get the velvet dress, I would get it myself, tho’ 
she could select it much better than I could. And now, 
I wish you could see how superb she looks in that dress. 
She did get it, and it is just as becoming to my wife as I 
thought it would be. 

A man that works as hard as I do, ought to please him- 
self sometimes, tho’ economy and prudence are so wise and 
excellent in my estimation. It never seemed to me that I 
had a right to drink wine, or use tobacco, or go often to 
the theater; but it does seem right, dear sister, for me to 
please an elegant taste in my home, sometimes, and to be 
generous to the poor. These are my pet prerogatives, in 
expending money and time. Time is the most precious 
thing of all, when it can be given to the suffering children 
of want and calamity. O Annettie, there are sufferings 
on earth that no one ever can comprehend or witness, ex- 
cept a physician. I never love my profession quite so 
well at any other time, as when it enables me to help the 
innocent and suffering children of poverty. When I give 
them my time and talents, I feel sure that God is glorified ; 
for He has expressly said, “Blessed is he that considereth 
the poor.” 

Cornelia has been reading this letter over my shoulder, 
and says she will finish it for me, if I will quit writing, 
and play the organ for her and mother. It helps me, dear 
sister, for her to write part of my letters to you. She 
helps me in all my duties. She helps me to go in haste 
when it is needful to do so; and sometimes she goes with 
me to visit my poor patients. It often soothes the sufferer, 
and always cheers and brightens my toilsome path. She 
has learned to drive my spirited horse almost as well as I 
can, but she says she could not drive him if he did not 
hear my voice at the end of the reins. Cornelia believes 
that a faithful physician ought to have the best wife pos- 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


257 


sible, and she makes everything in life more pleasing and 
less difficult to me. 

But I must say good-night to you, my sister, and devote 
the rest of this evening to music, and mother, and Cor- 
nelia. With prayerful affection, I am truly 

Your devoted brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XXXIX. 

Dear Annettie — I want to say to you this evening, how 
wonderful and blessed it is, to know the power a woman 
has, to make her home a paradise. It is a power that 
belongs peculiarily to her, in that place. Nothing else is 
like it; and no one else can walk, and talk, and work, as 
can a deep-hearted woman, in her heaven appointed home 
on earth. As a mother, a wife, a sister, there is no power 
like that a woman has in her home. And who has ever 
been blessed with so much of that best influence as I have ? 
My mother is an excelling woman ; my sisters have all 
been lovely ; and now that I have a wife, she is almost 
divine in all her words and ways. Surely I am the most 
fortunate of men ! and yet, I do believe that there are many 
who have these same blessings that I have. But I think 
oftenest of the Wentworths, and the hapless Arlingtons 
when I am happy, because of- the contrast. What would 
become of me, Annettie, with a wife like Myrah Arlington, 
or Dollie? I shudder now to think how willing I was to 
wed the wrong person, in the days of my youth. I give my- 
self anew to the God of mercy, when I think how He has 
saved me from such miserable calamity and error. 

The longer I live, dear sister, the more value I set on 
domestic loveliness, in all that relates to one’s home. A 
physician sees so much that is wrong in human homes, that 
16 


258 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


even cleanness and order are more charming to me now 
than ever. You told me long ago, that Cornelia had a 
genius for domestic happiness. Really she has a talent and 
taste for making life easy and beautiful, “ To all who in her 
path have a blest fellowship.” Every day, she says or does 
something sweet for somebody, that no one else would have 
done. I have never told you that she has a pet name for 
me, which she manufactured to suit herself. Mig-ne-o-nie is 
the way she writes and speaks it, and being translated, it 
means mine own. It sounds very beautiful when she speaks 
it, in her soft, peculiar accents — Mig-ne-o-nie ! 

But I have again something interesting to tell you about 
my friend Gordon Macdonald. It is just two years since 
I introduced him to our sister May Vidii, and now they are 
betrothed lovers. His great heart did heal ; and he is now 
as much in love with May Vidii as he once was with Ed- 
monia Wolverton. I am glad it is so, Annettie. There is 
no worthier person for sister May to wed, and she would 
make any good person happy. Doctor Macdonald is now 
practicing medicine in this city ; and in a few months they 
will be married, and live near to us. That will all be very 
pleasant to us, aud to them, if God permits it to be realized. 
And yet, Cornelia grieves to think how lonely the dear 
ones at Vinolia will be, when May leaves them. Such is 
life in this existence — some sorrows are ever blended with 
the brightest realities. We could not ask a happier alli- 
ance for sister May ; and Gordon is already grateful to Ed- 
monia Wolverton for her wisdom and dignity in rejecting 
him. He sees the goodness of all her arguments now ; and 
he will always believe her to be one of the greatest of mor- 
tals. She is really great, Annettie, and when I think of 
her, it seems plain to me that the brightest lot is not always 
the most beautiful. It is wonderful to see how happy she 
is, with all her sorrows. I do not know in any other per- 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


259 


son such sublime demonstration of the power of faith, and 
the beauty of holiness. In the midst of toils and cares 
she is content and cheerful. Her devotion to her mother 
is really poetic. I often hear of it as a thing of beauty, 
from persons who live near to them. Her brothers and 
her sister do not appreciate her ; yet she loves them de- 
votedly, and says, if they will only love the dear Lord, 
and go safely up to heaven, she will be satisfied and thank- 
ful forever. I tell you all this, Annettie, because you say 
she will always be an object of interest to your heart and 
mind. Beautiful indeed is the reality of a noble human 
being, when we see them busy in the battle of life, and 
going heavenward. Pray for the suffering ones, Annettie, 
and for me. 

Your faithful brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XL. 

Dear Annettie — This day is the fifth anniversary of 
my marriage, and tho’ I have more cares and toils now 
than I had then, the world is quite as cloudless above me, 
and around me there is an ever-deepening halo of repose 
and joy. Cornelia has not yet spoken an unkind word 
about any human being, nor has she been unkind to any 
living thing. I believe her heart aches with sympathy, 
whenever the flowers droop a little with their thirst for 
water. It seems wonderful, dear sister, that this tender- 
ness and sensibility should be so singularly complete in my 
wife. You know I have always cared more for sensibility 
than for beauty; and tenderness is more essential to me in 
human character than anything except rectitude. Corne- 
lia is the most perfect living harmony that I have ever 
seen ; and if she was not created especially for me, cer- 


260 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


tainly God was very good when He gave her to me. I 
used to think my dear friend Israel was the loveliest and 
most harmonious character of all — and so he was, Annet- 
tie — but his perfection was manly perfection ; and Cornelia 
is my ideal of womanly loveliness and worth. She never 
leaves anything undone that relates to the duties of her 
lot in life. She even sends darning-needles, and pins, and 
tapes, and all such little needed things, to the old ladies in 
her native locality, because they are so remote from the 
place for shopping, and she has the power to select them 
so easily. She never forgets the suffering ones, and never 
fails to love a touch or tone of real loveliness in any 
human being that crosses her path. I could trust the best 
interests of a whole community in her keeping. The con- 
fidence I feel in her wisdom and humanity is, to me, the 
perfection of earthly riches. To-day, Annettie, I thank 
the Holy Giver of perfect gifts, with a new adoration, for 
all His goodness to me. But I tremble to think that Cor- 
nelia can die. I know, dear sister, that the brightness of 
ray lot will not always stay ; and to-day I can but think of 
the changes that might come to my heart and home ; to- 
day I can but pray with new earnestness to our Father in 
heaven, and cast myself more entirely on His mercy, and 
power, and goodness. May He be always kind to you, 
my sister, is often the prayer of 

Your unchanging brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XLI. 

Dear Annettie — I have wished to tell you sooner how 
sorry we are for the spoiling of your husband’s goodly 
estate. When will the time arrive, in which men will see 
the wisdom and rectitude there is, in refusing to be surety 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


261 


for their friends? You know our dear father was made 
poor by that generous blunder. You have suffered all 
your young life for the means that went into other hands, 
because father endorsed notes for his worthy friends. It 
does seem sad, Annettie, that your husband should inflict 
privation on you in that same way. But he is so energetic 
that he will renew his prosperity, if health remains to him. 
I am glad you are a philosophic Christian, and can be sat- 
isfied so long as your husband is safe and well. Tell him 
of my love and sympathy ; and then say, I fear he has 
more credulity than wisdom. I still hope to keep my old 
resolve never to endorse a note for any man, and never to 
ask any man to be my security. This is all I can write 
now. Affectionately, 

Your brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XLII. 

Dear Annettie — Your sad, sad letter is here. It is 
difficult for us to realize that Albert Oneal is dead, departed, 
gone from the earth forever. It is difficult to realize that 
your home is a desolation, and your heart incapable of any 
thing but anguish. It is painful to think that no brother 
is at your side, in this terrible hour of your existence ; but 
God is ever near you, and He will give you friends, and a 
measure of His grace to help you. I know you love Him, 
and He has promised to be near to them that trust in Him. 
I do not fly to you now, dear sister, because it is better to 
wait until you are ready to come home to us, and then I 
will go for you immediately. You will, perhaps, wish to 
linger there for a time; and you must suit yourself en- 
tirely. I am more than ever your brother, and at your 
command in all things, and at any time. 


262 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


Tell me what day or week I shall go to bring you to my 
home, and be sure to tell me if there is any thing you wish 
for that money can supply to you. Let my purse be as 
your own. The distance is no impediment to a brother’s 
love. This world is not wide enough to separate you from 
my helping hand — my sympathy — my prayers. While 
you choose to remain away from us, let your stricken heart 
feel some solace in the thought that my home is your home ; 
that my angel wife is your tender sister ; and that my guile- 
less little children are taught to lisp your name lovingly. 

Cornelia is writing to you to-day, and I will say no more. 
Many human words might be wearisome to your lacerated 
heart — your stricken spirit. May our Father in Heaven, 
aud His holiest angels, be very near to you, now and ever- 
more, is one of the prayers of 

Your faithful brother, Walter Verily. 


LETTER XL1II. 

Dear Annettie — How you distress me ! by talking of 
teaching school, and taking care of yourself, because I have 
a family of my own. I pity a man who can only take care 
of his wife and children in a world like this. If I have a 
family of my own, I have also a strong arm, and a home. 
God would not bless me if I could dwell contentedly in my 
home of love and happiness, while you are homeless, and 
alone, and desolate. Remember I have a sou and daughter 
of my own, Annettie, and I would be wretched if I thought 
my boy would ever suffer his lone sister to battle with the 
world as you talk about doing, in order to be independent. 
Teaching is a noble occupation, and I honor it, but leave 
it for those who have a taste for it, aud for those who need 
the salary of a teacher. You have no taste for teaching a 


LIVING AND LOVING . 


263 

school ; and while I live, and work successfully, you, ray 
sister, will not need the salary. I appoint myself your 
banker and your guardian. A lone woman who has no 
good brother, may battle with the world, and feel that she 
is brotherless, while she works among strangers, but the 
Bible tells us that “ a brother is born for adversity,” and I 
must fulfill the great purpose and teaching of my Creator. 
The Arab of the desert, with no home but his tent, and 
no riches but his horse, always takes care of his unmarried 
sister. He even requires his wife to love her, because she 
is his sister. You are as lone as if you had never been 
married, and quite as dear to me, Annettie, and I would 
like to be as tender and true as an Arab, at least. 

You seem to regret my intended expending of money 
on your account. O Annettie, my dear sister, God would 
not love me nor my children, if I could save a few poor 
dollars for them, while there is anything that the earnings 
of my hand can do to comfort you. I hold it to be my 
imperative duty so to feel, aod so to demonstrate my heart 
and mind. I implicitly beliefve the inspired apostle, who 
says, “He that provideth not for his own, hath denied 
the faith, and is worse than an infidel.” Certainly you 
are my own, by all the bonds of kindred and association ; 
and now, your desolation only consecrates and hallows 
the tie that binds me to my sister. Very much might be 
said to you just now on the subject of brotherly love and 
duty; but I will turn to another and less lofty argument 
against your generous regretting about my purse. 

Almost every man who earns a good living, thinks it his 
privilege to spend some portion of it in pleasing himself. 
One pleases himself by smoking fine segars, and drinking 
wine from oriental vineyards ; another lives luxuriously, 
without wine or segars; others please themselves by adorn- 
ing their homes with fine pictures and statues ; and it is 


264 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


common for men, who are not rich, to please themselves with 
one thing or another that is expensive. Now, I do not 
claim any privilege that does not benefit others, or glorify 
my Creator; yet I do claim the privilege of adorning my 
home in a Christian manner ; and you can believe me 
when I tell you, that, all the paintings of the “ old mas- 
ters” of art, and all the statues that sculptors love, could 
not adorn my home with an adorning so rich and rare as 
the living presence of my sister An nettie. I claim that 
as my privilege. 

And, you must not feel that anything I can do for you 
is an act of bounty. You must not feel that you are 
dependent while I am alive, and can work until the sweat 
of toil is on my brow. In other countries, even distant 
relations have rights in the homes of their more fortunate 
kindred. It is only in our glorious land, that relations are 
called dependent, when they lean on a brother or sister in 
time of need. 

With the Bible for my teacher, I must believe, and 
affirm to you, Annettie, that a lone sister has a divine 
right, to all a brother can do for her consolation and com- 
fort. It is not only her right, but she wrongs him when 
she does not turn to him, at any time when she needs his 
kindness or his help. Dearest sister, you affiict me, by 
being reluctant to lean on me. I fear you have been de- 
teriorated by the calculating coldness of the worldly world. 
Have you forgotten the sweet lessons our father and 
mother taught us, by being tender and true to their broth- 
ers and sisters? What would our father say, if he could 
speak to us, and you were alone, and away from ray house? 

You say that you could travel alone, and not trouble me 
with the journey; but I will not hear of it. You might 
travel alone, if your husband were living, and you could 
travel with a happy heart. Ladies can journey alone in 


/ 


LIVING AND LOVING. 265 

our favored laud. But now, when your heart is bleeding, 
I could not bear to think of your desolate, long journey, 
from the grave of Albert Oneal to the home of your youth. 
To me, Aunettie, there is always a sort of distress in seeing 
a lady travel alone. I never see it without wondering what 
calamity has befallen her family, or what sick person she 
is hastening to see. I could not sleep and wake peacefully 
in my home of love, if I should consent to let you come 
to us alone at this time. I shall hold myself in readiness 
to go after you, at any time that you may appoint. 

You say that all my letters to you are now in your desk. 
I would like for you to re-read the first letter I wrote to 
you, after you married Albert Oneal, and parted from us. 
Yes, read that letter now, Annettie, and remember that my 
heart has been growing deeper and warmer ever since it 
was written. Believe me, too, that my arm is stronger, 
and my nature more truly evangelized. God seems nearer 
to me now ; and I feel more certain that His loving favor 
is my portion and my real help. 

I hope, dear sister, you will tell me very soon when to 
go after you. Cornelia will never be happy again, until 
she can do something to console and comfort you. We 
shall all feel more tranquil and less anxious when you are 
with us. 

Perhaps it may interest you, even now, to know, that 
we intend to retire to a rural home, when I can find one a 
few miles from the city, that will suit the rustic taste of 
our dear Cornelia. She almost pines for a woodland home. 
I would like to find a gentle slope, and a rivulet, where 
elms and maples abound, and where the dogwood grows so 
close to the beech trees, that its pale flowers unfold among 
their young green leaves in the springtime, while the gentle 
anemone looks up among the mosses about their great old 
roots. When we get into such a home, dear sister, I can 


266 


LIVING AND LOVING. 


build you a room close to ours and on the first floor, if you 
wish for it. 

And there is one thing more I will tell you now, Annet- 
tie. If you should live longer than I do, my written will 
shall provide for you a portion, with my wife and children. 
Even now I could leave a comfortable independence, for 
wishes so moderate, and tastes so pure and simple, as those 
of my sister Annettie and my priceless Cornelia. 

But it is time to say adieu. With a love that cannot 
change, I am, as ever, 

Your devoted brother, Walter Verily. 


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